Neverwas
by ScintillatingTart
Summary: A sense of self is all they have left to share between them. (Rated M, Carson/Hughes)
1. Chapter 1

I don't own anything related to Downton Abbey and never will. If you look at my bank balance, it will attest to that fact rather loudly.

So, this is my first DA fic. I'm probably not doing it right. I never do. Don't care, though! Rated M for mature (ha!) content, shenanigans, and let's play in the pool of tears, shall we?

Neverwas  
by Scintillating Tart  
April 2015 – June 2015

One:  
Lakeside Reverie

This year, she managed to stop herself from stuffing stones into her pockets.

Once a year, Mrs. Hughes took one day – one whole day – off. It was the same day every year, and if Her Ladyship had paid close enough attention to notice it, blessedly, she had not commented. And Elsie used her single, solitary day off to wander the estate. It did not matter if the weather was good or bad; it was all part and parcel of her penance.

It was sweltering and the sun sizzled off the darkness of her jacket as she wandered aimlessly around the grounds. She'd caught her skirt on a fallen limb, tearing part of the hem. She'd stumbled a few times in the mud like a faltering foal, getting up to her calves in muck. But when she had come to a stop on the edge of the lake, Elsie Hughes had not put stones in her pockets.

She had not considered, not once, the need to find oblivion.

This year was different, somehow, fundamentally. Like a giant hand had come forth from the heavens and wiped her sins from the board of life, allowing her to begin again. It hadn't, not really, but mayhaps she had found a measure of peace rather than self-condemnation?

This year, she had something – somebody – a reason to live on. No matter how much she corrected herself internally, the truth remained that she had found a rather large… really rather large… reason to keep on. Of course, poor Mr. Carson had no clue about her 'day off', no clue about her penance, her punishment, her wish over the years to just jump in the lake, weighted down by fieldstone, rocks, whatever she could find to stuff her pockets with. Goodness, heaven only knew what he would think about her failings! He might just retract the gentle bridge of feelings that they had come to understand and build between them; and then she really might throw herself into the drink.

She stared out across the water, wondering if, for the first time in years, she might just be able to gloss over her past and pretend that it hadn't happened at all. No one at Downton knew; no one in the village could guess. She was just Mrs. Hughes, a bloody institution, never changing from the moment she'd taken the promotion to housekeeper. She wasn't soiled or dirty to them; she was only broken, fallen, in her own mind.

Her mind was a trap. A steel trap, neither forgiving nor forgetting.

Not forgetting the rough hands on her hips, the pain as she was taken against her will. Not forgiving herself for falling in the family way. Not forgetting the days and nights she had spent in a panic, praying that she would find a way for the child to come into the world and be cared for in a way she could not. Not forgiving herself or the man who had put her into the mess in the first place.

But here, she was only Mrs. Hughes. She was important, needed, valued – far more than she had ever been in her life. And Charles Carson… did she dare say it? Charles Carson loved her. They were to be wed soon; life would go on. The world would keep turning, and no one would ever, could ever, know of her shame and suffering.

The tears came unbidden, unwanted, coursing down her face as they always did. She carried such sorrow, such pain, tucked away in her heart. A daughter she had never wanted, a life she could have had, had she not thrown herself away from Glasgow and come to Downton. She could have been happy to be a mother, she would like to think, but not of that wee lass. Never to that lass.

Without thinking, without feeling, she dove into the water, fully-clothed, desperate to feel something other than agony of spirit.

When she came up for air, Charles, her dear sweet Charles, was tearing toward the water, looking for all the world like the hounds of Hell were on his heels. She waved from the water and watched him come to a halt on the edge. "Mrs. Hughes," he managed to huff and puff.

"Did you follow me?" she questioned, treading water.

"I don't know whatever you mean –"

"Did you follow me, Mr. Carson?" she called back to him. "I'll not be put out if you tell me the truth."

He hung his head, shame-faced. "I did," Charles replied. "Because I was worried about you – and my fears were justified, as you've ruined your new dress…"

"I don't give a fig about the dress," Elsie said. She came back to shore quickly, wanting to put him out of his misery. And what did he think he was doing, following her like she'd done something wrong?

She came out of the water and up onto the waterline with him, taking his hand when he proferred it. They were engaged, not in the Dark Ages. The time had long since come and passed when she would have lectured about impropriety and taking advantage; she was far too old and such a hypocrite for even thinking such things. "Thank you, Mr. Carson," Mrs. Hughes said stiffly. "I'll make my own way to the house."

"No, Mrs. Hughes, I – I demand you tell me what's going on here."

Demands. _He demands_? The bloody cheek of the man – she would sooner shatter a crystal goblet over his hard skull than to tell him the words that would break them both forever.

"What is going on here, Mr. Carson," she said in a cold, sarcastic tone, "is that this is my one day I request to be left alone, to my own devices, and you have broken your word to do so."

"I've given no such consent – Elsie, stop," he said, grasping for her hand, the one with her simple engagement ring on it. "Please talk to me."

"There is nothing to talk about," she said, lowering her voice. "_Please_." The word was soft, filled with anguish and pain she could not hold back.

"Just answer me a simple question," he rumbled, his voice low and concerned. "Are you all right, Elsie? You haven't… the cancer…"

"No," she mumbled. "Nothing so mundane. But if I told you…" _If I told you, you would leave me. You would leave me forever and turn me out into the cold, Charles Carson. You would never love me again. I am tainted goods, soiled, dirty… not worthy of you._

"If you told me, it would give my heart a rest," he confessed. "I do not like seeing you so upset that you would dive into the lake rather than speak to someone –"

"Oh…" She huffed, feeling angry, put out, sick, and more than slightly in love with the infuriating man. Everything that she felt swirled around her in a dark, dank cloud, making her depression that much stronger. "Not everything is about you, Charles," she muttered, pushing past him with as much dignity as she could though she was utterly soaked to the bone.

He grabbed her hand, roughly bringing her back to him till she was nearly flush against him. She wondered for a moment if he'd lost all his senses – his trousers and jacket would never dry before supper – then whimpered as he bent to kiss her. "Please, Elsie," he whispered between soft, needy kisses, "tell me. Whatever is bothering you, we can overcome it together…"

She pulled away from him as fast as she could, once she got her mind working again. "Charles, please, no," Elsie protested quietly. "Not today. Never today. Never ever today." Not the anniversary of the assault on her womanhood; not the day burned into her mind as the day she had failed. Not when she could vividly recall hot breath against her ear and neck, bites on her shoulders and back through her muslin uniform, rough hands, bruises on her hips, blood on her thighs…

She was tainted, dirty, and she could never let Charles, her Charles, see the horrors of her memories.

Maybe it would have been better if this had been the year she had finally stuffed her pockets full of stones and debris, stepping into the lake and letting the waters close in over her head.

Because then she would never see the look on his face as she stomped all over his heart.

* * *

She didn't come down for supper. Carson still had a plate laid for her in her usual spot just to his right. He keenly felt the absence of his fiancée, just as he always did when she fell ill or was out for her half day – which happened rarely, but did happen. He wanted, really, nothing more than to go upstairs and barge into her sleeping quarters and tear her weak, feeble excuses limb from limb, exposing the truth and setting her free from whatever story she'd concocted in her head.

But he did not. He dared not. They were reputable people, they were. They were paid to run things and be efficient and discrete… not to announce their pain and suffering to the world. No one knew that he was suddenly having immense trouble with the fingers on his right hand – sometimes, they would seize up and turn into fat claws, and there was nothing he could do but wait for the agonizing spell to pass. Elsie knew, his darling Elsie Hughes, but only because he'd broken down and confessed to her that he was far from a young man.

But this? He had no idea how to reach her, to bring her back out of the hellish shell she'd disappeared into. She had been like a wild woman at the lake, fierce and frightened like he'd been about to attack her. It was only after they had returned to the big house and she had pulled away, tearing off to the attics without a word, that he had realized that he had probably done her more harm than good.

And the very thought broke his heart. That he could be the architect of her agony, rather than her savior from the pain. God, what had he done?

There was a soft rap on the door to his pantry, then it opened, revealing the object of his obsession. Her face was pale and drawn, her lips pinched together tightly. "I just came to tell you," she said very softly, "that you will be blaming yourself and you most certainly should not. It's nothing that you've done, Charles." Her voice broke, shattered, on his name. "I love you, and I would protect you from this," she finally managed to choke out.

"Surely, it isn't as bad as all that," he said, hesitating.

"No," she murmured, "it's worse than that." Elsie, his beautiful, sweet Elsie, smiled sadly. "I'll be off to bed, then. Tomorrow… tomorrow will be better," she promised very softly.

"Her Ladyship has hired a new nanny," he said, changing the subject quickly. "She'll be here within a fortnight – from London, where she's been caring for the children of the Earl of Maybury. A Miss McCabe, I believe." He watched her face for a sign of interest, almost sighing in bitter disappointment when there wasn't one. "Elsie,_ please_ –"

She took a step forward, then closed the door behind her, turning the key in the lock. "I worked as a lady's maid before I came to Downton," she said, her voice low and strained. "I had to fight off footmen attempting to take liberties, and there was a particular so-called gentleman… who took a shine to me. He caught me in my quarters more than once, touching and… and…"

His blood pressure was rising, hot and primal and furious in his veins. Carson knew this story, had heard it too many times before. He had witnessed it too many times; the randy men taking liberties with young, unmarried women who were ill-equipped to fight them off. But the idea that his fiancée had been one of the unlucky ones… it nearly drove him into an apoplectic fit of rage.

"And one day," she finally continued, "he took what he wanted in a cupboard beneath the main staircase." With that bombshell, she turned and left, closing the door behind her with a barely audible 'click'.

And she left Charles flabbergasted and utterly horrified.

END PART ONE


	2. Chapter 2

Two:  
A Break in the Clouds

As soon as the door shut behind her, Elsie knew that running had been the wrong thing to do. She still felt like that scared maid, taking her things and running at the first chance she'd gotten, giving notice when her Da had died. The fear shook her like a hand round her neck, but something deep inside her whispered that she could trust her Charlie – that he wouldn't hurt her like Laird Grant had done. The juxtaposition of two such opposing views, stark with contrast, made her indecisive and frightened, moreso than just fearing for her life and what was left of her virtue.

She leaned against the door, her hand over her mouth to smother the sob that threatened to break free, but she could not open the door again, could not face him. Not when her shame was on parade for him to see now. Not when she had confessed such a sin, a breakwater tide that threatened to drag her under over and over again until she wished for death.

And now that he knew her secret, how could he possibly love her? How could he possibly want to be with her day in and day out, knowing that she had been ruined by another man? How could he want to touch her, to hold her, to have… relations… with her? What had she _done_? Why on God's green _earth_ had she confessed to him?

Because it was eating her alive, like a monster gnawing in her belly, threatening to turn her inside out for its amusement. Because she loved him, and she could not hold it back any longer. Because he deserved to know why her melancholy overtook her; why she had nightmares at times that he could hear through the thin wall between their rooms.

Because she was so tired of fighting, of being strong.

Because she needed him.

Of all the reasons she could bind together to justify her actions, the last two were the truth: stark, piercing darkness and light honed on the edge of a knife, threatening to slice her. She could lie to herself no more than she could lie to him, to deny the truth of her life and her pain.

She heard his footsteps, purposeful and heavy too late to react before the door was opened from the inside and she fell forward – straight into him. The man who might be her savior or her accuser, the man she loved more dearly than she loved herself. His arms were warm as they steadied her, gently releasing till the only hold he had on her was a light grasp of her elbows, holding her at arm's length. She looked up at him with fear tearing at her insides, making her heartbeat race; would he break her now or would he wait until the shock had settled in?

He said nothing, just stared at her for the longest time; her heart shattered and she bit her lip to force back a shuddering sob. He took a step back into the room, pulling her with him, then another and another until they were clear of the door. He nudged it shut with the tip of his well-polished shoe, still holding her gently in his grasp. He closed his eyes and exhaled, the rush of air sounding to her ears like defeat. She bowed her head, refusing to look at him again; it was too much, knowing that he was going to leave her now. That he might even go to their employers and report her for the liar she was; the thief of their money that she had become over the years. For what right had she to it, broken and bleeding as she was?

He released his hold on her and she backed away, one shuffling step than another, until she was against the door. She closed her eyes and whispered, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"I am sorry, too," he rumbled, his normally booming voice lowered to a low peal of thunder, creeping across the garden like a wave. "I am sorry that you've suffered with this on your own for so long, Elsie. No one deserves this. No one – especially not you."

"Mr. Carson," she choked out, "I don't want your pity –"

"I do not pity you, Elsie Hughes," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I could never. You are stronger than I've ever known anyone else to be; how could I offer you pity when you deserve so much more?"

"But, Charles –"

He placed his hands on either side of her, bracing himself against the door, leaning toward her until his lips were scarcely more than a breath away from hers. "_I love you_," he murmured, the lion's roar suddenly less than a fury, little more than a purr. "And I will let no man harm you again. It will not stand, Elsie."

She released her lower lip from the bite of her teeth, letting out an almost hysterical sob as she dissolved into tears. His hands came up, brushing the tears away as he whispered assurances and promises; her heart reformed and began to sing praises – of him, of them, of the love that they surely shared. The tears ceased, and she finally met his gaze, hoping against all hope to find him looking back at her without a trace of pity.

She shivered with the intensity of his gaze, feeling it overcome her; it was not the love or the tender devotion she saw there that unnerved her… nay, it was the desperate fire in his eyes, banked and needy. She could only answer back the siren call with a weak touch of the same need; she was frightened by the sheer strength of the fire between them, such passion that could destroy them both.

But her fear that he would still leave her was so strong it was a tangible thing, waiting for her to reach out and touch it. _Touch him_, the little voice in her head insisted shrilly. _**Make**__ him stay. Break that bastard's hold on you – Charles loves you. He would never hurt you. Never ever and a sea of nevers._

Without thinking, letting her heart lead her head round the merry chase for once, she pulled him down for a kiss. It wasn't like their nightly kisses good night, flavored with sherry or port or scotch whiskey, tender and sweet and all the things that sweethearts were meant to share. No, this was something altogether different; something that sparked between them like a flint, igniting, burning out of control in a flash of fire, burning her alive where she stood, her fingers clutching his lapels desperately.

He let her lead the dance, inappropriate as it was; they were not yet wed, the banns only begun to be read the Sunday prior. But in this moment, she wanted him: she _needed_ him. She needed him in a way that could not be improper if you loved one another so much that without one another, the very air seemed to wither away. She fumbled with the door, the lock, securing them away from the outside world; the outside world that was so cruel and judgmental, so full of pain and suffering.

And they felt.

They felt one another, hands and lips and tongues guiding the way. They felt such emotions; hers conflicting and painful in ways that could not be described, and yet… she could not fault herself for feeling such love, such pureness of desire for him. Only him, _her Charles_; the man who would love her and shelter her from the storm. How could she not show him the depths of her love after all of this? Would she be a hypocrite anymore now than before, when she could speak of such love as a truth?

Elsie wanted so much more than a quick fumble, but she knew that stolen moments were hard to come by, and she was desperate to feel him, to hold him, to banish the memories and hold them at bay for another year. She had never wanted someone nearly as much as she wanted Charles, her Charles. Her sense of shame was overwhelmed, and she felt nothing but love for him.

Their kisses, their caresses, his hand beneath her skirts, gently stroking parts of her that made her blush, all conspired to a breathless whisper of, "Charles. _Please_."

The dam broke, their emotions bursting forth with force. Suddenly, it didn't matter that they were… fornicating… against the door of his pantry. All that mattered was that he was inside her, and she felt no shame in it. She felt no shame in loving him; after all, she was already fallen. She had already given birth to a child by a man whose seed had been spilled in violence; why could she not take benediction in something so pure and loving as her body joined with her Charlie's?

The heat between them grew ever hotter, scorching in its intensity; he smothered her cries of pleasure with his lips, breathed them back as tiny whimpers as he moved within her. It was fierce, primal, overwhelming. It was beautiful.

There was no shame between them, no remorse.

She floated away on gossamer wings, touching the sky, the moon, the stars…

Even in the dark of night, pretending that his hands were upon her, touching her, bringing her to fulfillment, she had not reached such heights of ecstasy. Nor had she come back to earth to such a gentle kiss, pressing their foreheads together, one unruly curl of his hair between them.

"Oh, Elsie," Charles Carson whispered, "I never want to let you go. Not now."

She whispered back, "Me either, Charles."

No shame, no remorse, just a deep, abiding love.

END PART TWO


	3. Chapter 3

Three:  
In the Morning

Carson was wide awake long before his alarm issued its angry trilling, long before he heard Ivy knocking on Elsie's door, calling out, "Mrs. Hughes, it's almost six!" He had been wide awake for hours, unable to sleep after what he would now refer to as 'the incident'. Witnessing Elsie's breakdown had shaken him straight to the core; he had never felt so strongly a want to protect, to shelter, another human being, and it was difficult after hiding his emotions behind a glass wall for so long to deal with the torrent of conflict rushing through him.

He wanted to find the man who had hurt her so deeply, and hurt him worse. He wanted to comfort his dearest, to offer her the solace of his acceptance. For he did accept what she had told him, even though it caused them both immeasurable pain. He accepted it because he had no choice; it was a part of her, wasn't it? And hadn't he proposed to share everything with her? Was it fair to not wish to hold her close and soothe her tears? It hurt him when she was in pain, suffering – it hurt him deeply.

And he loved her. With every fiber of his being, he adored Miss Elsie Hughes. She was like a lovely angel with a crumpled wing – he would help her learn again to fly. He would love her to the end of his days; last night in his pantry was only the beginning. A start that would bring them together closer, he hoped.

He heard her beginning to stir, and he gently rapped his knuckles against the wall. A softer, knock rejoined his, and his heart soared, knowing she was just there, and all that separated them was the wall. And soon… soon, there would be no wall. Soon, they would be married and life would carry on, have new meaning and purpose. They would never have to be alone again.

_She_ would never have to face her demons alone again.

With that thought pleasing him immensely, he rose and went about his morning routine, humming a little and whistling as he did. He felt rejuvenated, relaxed, ready to face anything – for he had his Elsie at his side. They were a team, a right pair, they were.

And it was so easy to fall in love with her, to love her, to be with her. His beautiful little Scottish dragon, breathing fire, piss and vinegar, she was. And he loved every moment of it, even when the full force of her fury was directed at him.

Charles Carson couldn't keep the smile off his lips.

That could be an inconvenient bloody problem.

* * *

For once in her life, Elsie had slept a deep, contented sleep, unsullied, unspoiled by dreams. It was almost a nightmare in and of itself when Ivy knocked on her door, calling out the morning greeting. She lay upon the bed, hands folded over her ribs, as if she could hold her errant heart in her chest instead of allowing it to run off and find its mate on the other side of the wall.

They had whispered such things, nonsense and sense and such naughty, passionate things to one another last night. She could only hope that he had meant them; she had meant every word, every breath between the words. Such promises she had sworn and God help her if she broke her word to him.

She loved him. She needed him. It was simple as that, and just as divine.

The wall behind her head reverberated with a gentle knock, then another, and another. He was letting her know he was there, and she loved him so much for it; he knew she felt so alone in the mornings, before they joined everyone downstairs for breakfast. She had confessed as much; a deep, dark secret longing for companionship that left her weak until she took flight upon the stairs.

Until she came downstairs to him.

She rolled over, smiling, and drew up on her knees, knocking on the wall with gentle enthusiasm. Two more weeks until their wedding; and then they need not be apart at all. His Lordship and Her Ladyship had already offered them a small suite of rooms near the staff quarters, and had insisted on furnishing it from the attic stores. They had been so wonderful, so understanding, and now it was up to Elsie to hold in the surprise until their wedding night.

Though, last night, she had been so deathly afraid that their wedding night might not actually happen. She drew back from the wall, feeling the mantle of melancholy settle back around her shoulders, her blissful happiness marred by it now.

So Elsie Hughes got out of bed and started her day. She was no longer the woman who had acted so impulsively, so without shame, the night before, and rather… she was the dowdy, shrewd housekeeper again. She tried not to think about how wonderful Charles was; it would only lead to problems.

* * *

Breakfast was a terse, tense affair – many of the servants were squabbling in the downstairs because of the sheer heat of August. Carson felt the need to intervene more than once, and finally Mrs. Hughes had all but shouted, "If you all would kindly please cease acting like children, I would think we would all be much better off facing the day!"

Then suddenly, bells rang out and everyone scattered, leaving Elsie by herself to finish her toast and tea… just as she wished. It only took five minutes, and then she was off like a shot herself, hustling and bustling around the downstairs, barking orders to those who were inclined to pretend to be feint with the heat.

And in fleeting moments, she would catch his eye and they would share a secret gaze, an inner smile that they could not, would not share with the others.

Such was bliss.

* * *

He burst into her sitting room, spluttering. "I never in all my days –"

"What is it, dear?" Elsie inquired gently, not looking up from her ledger, nor ceasing her work.

"The nanny has abandoned us completely," he huffed. "Gone without notice and god knows, without reference! It's a good thing that Her Ladyship had the foresight to interview for another nanny…"

Elsie sighed and frowned. "Then who, pray tell, is watching the bairns right now?"

"Anna and Mr. Bates, for the moment," Charles muttered. "I've been made to call the new nanny and have her rush by train immediately. It is not dignified, Mrs. Hughes, the way people treat their employers in this new, modern age –"

"I suppose not," she admitted, "but times change and must also we with them." She finished her entry and glanced up at him. "I'll go up and relieve Mr. Bates in a few minutes if you can see fast to control things down here. There's no point in him spending too much time in the nursery – Her Ladyship will get nervous about leaving the bairns in the company of a man for too long."

He nodded. "Will it interfere with your normal duties?"

She stared at him, open-mouthed like a fish. "Of course it will interfere!" she exclaimed. "But what else can I, must I, do? Miss Sybbie and Master George require looking after, and their parents and grandparents are not of any good standing to do so on their own. Anna and I will manage." She glared at him for a moment, then sighed. "I don't expect you to understand."

"Well, that I certainly do not –"

She got up and wrapped her arms around him, giving him a quick kiss. "Is the new nanny arriving today, then, or am I to sleep in the nursery tonight?" she inquired softly.

"She won't be here until the morrow," he muttered.

"Ah, then I'll be forced to send someone for my nightclothes," Elsie said in a teasing voice. "By the way, Mr. Carson… I love you. I do, I do, I love you ever so much." She gave him another kiss, then pulled away and left him to stand in her parlor, the door wide open so anyone could have seen them.

* * *

He watched Elsie as she rocked Marigold in the rocking chair, soothing the tired toddler. The other two were restful in repose, their naps already underway, but Marigold was still up and sniffly, cuddling her tightly. "Yes, darling," Elsie murmured, stroking the little girl's back.

They still tended to forget the Crawley's young ward when they spoke of the nursery. Lady Edith was very good with her, acting as a mother would in private, which of course served to raise eyebrows, but she did not bring complete scandal down on the house by doing it in public. But his Elsie had a soft spot for the babe and he often found her cuddling and coddling the little girl with a smile on her lips and gladness in her heart.

And, not for the first time, Charles Carson wondered if they had trod the best path. Staying in service, giving purpose to their lives, such as it was. He had always felt the need to get away from his vaudeville days and hide under a cloak of respectability. And now he knew her secret; hiding from a slight, a ruining that no one had known existed at all.

The spark between them had always been there. From the moment she'd stepped in the servant's entrance, soaked to the bone from a sudden deluge, snapping that, "Of course, Mr. Carson, I am all right." He had been under butler then, training to take over, and all he could see was the firey passion burning too brightly in her eyes.

They had had moments over the years, moments that were too friendly for friendship, but they had both shied away, reticent, unwilling to give up the propriety that had stretched between them. He always saved a dance for her at the servant's ball. She always shared with him her sweet Christmas treats from home – Scottish shortbread and oat cakes flavored with honey and rosewater.

If that wasn't love, he didn't know what was.

Then Joe Burns came to Downton and had threatened everything. Not that they had had much… but going from that to nothing? It was unthinkable! It was like tearing open one's chest and ripping out their beating heart, throwing it on the ground to be trod upon.

But they had weathered the storms, they had. Together.

He would have asked her to marry him years ago, if only he had not been so… so… afraid. The truth was, he had been afraid. To leave Downton, to disappoint her, to be anything unworthy of her.

In another life, he would have swept her off her feet, carried her home to his small house, put her to work in his small shop, selling wares of great beauty and sensibility, made love to her in their bed, watched her belly swell with child over and over again. But this was not their life, was it? Their life was much harder; subservient to the Lord and Lady, they had lived in constant fear of being discovered, caught out, and cast into the darkness without preamble.

So he stood, watching her lavish her maternal love on the children of the House, for they had none to call their own.

"Charles," Elsie murmured, "can you come here and help me for a moment? Marigold won't settle and she's overtired."

"What can I do?" he asked, voice very low as not to disturb the others.

She smiled and replied, "I think you should try to soothe her while I go to the loo. She's fussed so much she's kneed my poor bladder once too many."

"All right," he said, gently taking the babe from her arms, cuddling her. "Hello, Miss Marigold," Charles rumbled softly. "Mrs. Hughes needs to go to the loo, so you're stuck with me for a few minutes, all right?" The tiny girl looked up at him with wide eyes, then smiled, snuggling into his chest and collarbone.

By the time Elsie came back, Marigold was sound asleep, and he was tucking her into bed. "How did you – Charles, how did you manage that?" Elsie asked.

"I think she was just ready to sleep," he said with a small smile, pulling the blanket up over the little girl in her cot. His smile vanished and he sighed. "I often think about us," he said quietly. "Of what might have been, had we only thought of ourselves and what we might want."

She smiled sadly and sighed. "I do, as well. We'd have grandchildren by now, wouldn't we?"

He nodded and frowned. "But we don't."

"Aye," she agreed, "we don't. But we care for such wonderful lassies and the lad," she pointed out. "We mustn't think about it too much. The past won't change, Charles. But we have the future laid out before us now, don't we? And together, too."

Propriety be damned, he put his arm around her, holding her as they looked down at the sleeping girl.

Neither of them saw Her Ladyship watching from the doorway of the nursery.

END PART THREE


	4. Chapter 4

Four:  
Candid Conversations

As tea drew to an end, Lady Grantham gestured for Carson to come closer. "Carson, you and I need to have a small chat," she said pointedly. "Will you join me in the alcove for a moment?"

His eyebrows nearly shot up into his hairline. What on earth was she suggesting? He was happily engaged and supposedly, she was blissfully in love with His Lordship, though god only knew why…

She stared at him for a moment, then laughed. "Carson, no! I'm not going to _seduce_ you – hasn't Mrs. Hughes done enough of that already?"

If only she knew, the smile would be right off her lovely face.

"Yes, m'lady," he said gravely, following her lead into the servant's alcove. "What do you wish to speak to me about, m'lady?"

"I'm worried about Mrs. Hughes," Lady Grantham said. "She's not been herself lately. I know that she's probably nervous about the forthcoming wedding and picking furnishings for your apartment, but that doesn't account for her behavior entirely."

"What apartment?" Charles said. "M'lady," he added hastily.

"It's meant to be a surprise – don't tell her I told you," Lady Grantham said, eyes sparkling with barely repressed mischief. He thought it was terribly American of her to hide a secret then reveal it at the worst possible time. "You'll be receiving the Grey Suite on the third floor, just beneath the attics, to live in after the wedding. Mrs. Hughes has been picking furniture out of storage all week to decorate with."

"M'lady, that is exceedingly gracious of you and His Lordship –"

"Mrs. Hughes, Carson… whatever will we do with Mrs. Hughes?" Lady Grantham said insistently, trying to redirect his attention. Unfortunately, it was redirecting it right back to where his focus had been for too long already, and he felt unnerved by it. "Has she been ill at all?"

"No, m'lady. Mrs. Hughes has secrets, just as anyone does," he said, trying not to give away that he knew the secret. "I'm not certain she would wish to be gossiped about, either, in such a way."

"I'm not gossiping, Carson – I'm merely worried about her. She seemed so sad earlier when she was caring for Marigold at naptime."

He blinked. "M'lady…"

"She loves you, Carson – any fool can see it," Lady Grantham said firmly. "But she doesn't very much care for herself, I think."

"M'lady, that is subjective at best," he pointed out in a gently stiff tone. "I will speak with Mrs. Hughes and ensure that she is quite all right."

"Carson, I think that she is enjoying her time in the nursery," Lady Grantham said with a small smile. "Maybe we shouldn't bring her back to earth just yet." She paused, then added, "Did you know she was so good with children, Carson?"

"No, m'lady, but the topic has never really arisen," he said aloud. _Only in our darkest dreams_, his heart sang.

Lady Grantham smiled more widely, then chuckled. "I'm sure it hasn't," she said. "Very well, Carson – since you won't play ball, I shall have to content myself with the fact that you and Mrs. Hughes are muddling through."

_Muddling through_? Bloody hell. "Lady Grantham, if there is one thing that Mrs. Hughes and I do not do, it is '_muddle through_' anything," he said, straightening his spine.

"If you say so, Carson," Lady Grantham replied with a charming giggle.

He might forgive her in time, for casting aspersions on his romantic designs on his Elsie… but maybe not.

* * *

"Night night, loves," Elsie cooed softly, gently petting Marigold's hair. Try as she might to play fairly, the youngest charge in the nursery was her favorite. It had something to do with the fact that she needed the most reassurance and love of the three, probably. Or maybe she reminded Elsie a bit of herself in days long past, searching endlessly for a little bit of affection to tide her over.

Not to mention, Miss Sybbie was prone to screaming that she wanted 'Her Donk', and Master George wasn't really a very social chap. Marigold just wanted a cuddle and a kiss.

Suddenly, Elsie was very, very glad that she'd not had more than the one child. And that she'd never been forced to raise that one child. It was all very overwhelming – must be for those who did not have nursemaids and nannies at their beck and call.

She would have had to have left service, taking up a mantle of subservience to a man in order to survive. Marriage would have been her only option. And with it, the constant battle to keep food on the table and shoes on children's feet, and… god, help her, she was glad she had not trod that path. She was glad that even Charles Carson hadn't been able to sway her till well after her childbearing days were over. She was glad that she had been ambitious and risen through the ranks, attaining for herself a status and stature that had nothing to do with her value as a woman. She was a general, commanding her troops and making sure that life was maintained and orderly, even though the world changed around them with abrupt alacrity.

She was glad she had chosen to give the bairn away. It sounded coarse and callous even to her ears, but it was the truth, selfish as it might be.

She straightened up, groaning softly as her back clicked, each joint popping in rapid succession. Getting older was no laughing matter; she'd found that out the hard way. Elsie winced as muscles that were not used to lifting children tensed up, causing her more pain than usual. But she would not leave her post; until the new nanny arrived, she had appointed herself in charge of the nursery.

The door opened and she turned quickly, wincing again. "Be careful," Anna scolded softly. "Are they asleep, then? Lady Mary and Lady Edith will need me again in about an hour, but I thought I'd come relieve you so you can get your night clothes and things for the morning."

Elsie smiled and nodded. "That's very considerate, Anna – thank you."

"You're very good with them," Anna said. "I think it's all the mothering below stairs that's done it, you know. I think you would have been quite a good mum, Mrs. Hughes."

Maybe not so good as all that. Anna's faith was clearly misplaced. "Oh, I don't know – I never felt that children were my calling," Elsie murmured. "I'll just go up to the attics and get my things, then."

"I'll make up the nanny's bed," Anna said cheerfully, "and fluff the pillows for you, Mrs. Hughes. Lady Mary said how pleased she was that you and I had run of the nursery today, as she's unsure about nannies in general at the moment."

"Never let a nanny do what a maid and a housekeeper can do better," Elsie commented wryly. "Though, I do admit to being rather dismayed at being forced by circumstances beyond my control to give up custody of the storeroom keys."

Anna smiled, then giggled softly. "Mrs. Patmore and Daisy have had a field day," she teased.

Well, that sealed the deal: after this, there would be no more dallying in the nursery! God forbid the kitchen staff get complacent and entirely too pleased with themselves.

"Well, we must nip that in the bud, mustn't we?" Elsie said, retreating from the nursery with speed. She hurried around, getting her things together and making sure that the storing cupboard had not, in point of fact, been destroyed or razed to the ground in her absence. Mrs. Patmore, of course, watched her with suspicious, beady little eyes, but when Mrs. Hughes said nothing, the cagey looks ceased.

Elsie headed back downstairs to the nursery and relieved Anna, who was watching the children sleep their tired dreams. "Do you and Mr. Bates want children?" Elsie inquired.

Anna blinked, startled out of her intense concentration. "Of course," she said. "We've been trying."

Elsie smiled sadly. Of course Anna would say that – she wanted a bairn because she loved her husband. "Well, I hope it happens soon for you, Anna."

"What about you and Mr. Carson? The wedding is soon, but I'ven't seen either of you putting much effort into planning things –"

Elsie shrugged. "We just need a ring and the paper," she said softly. "Nothing else matters. Maybe even that doesn't matter, except to the Family. I'd be happy to live in sin, if it meant having him."

Anna smiled and nodded. "I can see that. Nothing will change while you and Mr. Carson are at the helm, Mrs. Hughes. And I think that's a good thing."

"The more things change, the more they stay the same," Elsie pointed out with a small smile. "I'll go change for bed, then, and then you may go for the evening. I'll stay with the children in the morning so you may do your duty for Lady Mary and Lady Edith."

It only took a few minutes to get settled, and then Elsie found herself alone with the children. She'd helped her sister take care of her children once upon a time, back when she had been spoiled, when the babe was growing in her belly, and she knew how to do it. She just hoped that it would be a peaceful night with no distractions. She had seen what bearing babes could do to a woman – her sister had gone stark mad with the birth of her last babe, and when the house had burned down around her family when she'd been away at the hospital… god, the thought of such grief and pain was enough to drive Elsie mad herself! But perhaps she was mad, just a bit, just a pinch, for going to the lake every year and threatening – however internally – to drown herself.

She preferred to think she was not mad.

Just… overwhelmed… at times.

She didn't know how long she sat in the rocking chair, slowly rocking back and forth in time to her jumbled thoughts, but she blinked herself back to wakefulness when the door to the nursery opened, admitting Charles and a wooden tray with the remnants of dessert and the leftover wine. He smiled and murmured, "I am glad that Mr. Branson and Miss Sybbie came back when he realized that America was not the bountiful opportunity he had wished."

Elsie smiled a bit ruefully, then nodded. "As am I," she agreed. "And I am pleased it hadn't taken much longer for him to realize it."

"As are we all," he agreed, setting the tray down on the small decorative table beside the rocking chair. He picked up the other armchair and moved it over to sit down beside her, then began to pour the wine. "I thought you might want to talk after a long day looking after the wee ones," he offered up with a small smile.

"Oh, I just… I look at them and I feel so sad that we didn't have that chance," Elsie said. "Not that we would have, I mean, but… when something is taken away before it can even begin, it makes you long for it a bit."

"Only a bit?" he asked, raising an eyebrow and passing over her wineglass.

"Maybe more than a bit," she said, smiling sadly. "I must admit to being conflicted," Elsie said. "God knows what would have happened if I hadn't…" She stopped short, barely restrained the words _'given away my daughter'_, reining them in through sheer force of will. Charles did not know; he did not _need _to know. She fell silent, sipping the wine and frowning at the lump of rosewater custard he passed over.

"Elsie," he said softly, "when… the _incident_ occurred, were there _consequences_?"

It was innocent enough, his inquiry, his need for the truth. But below the surface, it was rife with all of the unanswered questions and pain that could break them apart completely. If she was not honest, if she lied to him, where would they stand then? Did he want to help her share her pain or was he still testing the waters?

Either way, she could not lie to him. Not her Charles.

"There was a bairn," she said very quietly, not meeting his worried gaze. "A little girl. She went to live with my cousin and his wife, as they could not have children of their own, and I did not care to take everything upon my own shoulders."

He was silent for a long time. She began to fret, then, inside, knowing that he was going to leave her now. That nothing would ever be the same between them. "Do you know of her now?" he asked.

"She is married, with two children," Elsie said. "She is happy. And, I think, that is all that matters. That she has a better life than I could have given her."

"And you came to Downton after?" he inquired gently.

"A couple years later," she said, honestly. The fire and her sister's mental breakdown had coincided with her early pregnancy, so it was easily enough explained away as they stayed with cousin Dicky and Emma, but after the baby, after she had settled Becky in at the care ward, she had needed to begin working again. So she had taken a position with a kind old woman… until Mrs. Browning had passed. And then, to Downton she had applied and been accepted. Her references were impeccable; even from the daughter of the man who had done her harm beneath the stairs. It had not been difficult.

Except on the days that were important. The anniversaries. Going to the wedding of her cousin's child and wondering if she had even done the right thing at all, letting her be brought up by her family. Maybe she would have been better off elsewhere, somewhere not so close…

Charles was still very quiet. "I am sorry," he said finally.

She picked at her custard and sighed. "I suppose you'll be wanting this back, then," she mumbled, balancing the custard bowl on her knees so she could take off her engagement ring.

He shook his head, curling her fingers closed around the ring. "No," Charles said gruffly, firmly. "I am sorry you've not had a good time of life or love, Miss Elsie Hughes. I am sorry that you've been wronged by the world and I am sorry that I could not save you."

"You didn't even know me," she said.

"Had I, things would be much different now," he pointed out gently. "I am not going to leave you because of the things in your past. Maybe… if I were younger, more inflexible, I would. But I have loved you for a damn sight longer than you might believe, Elsie, and I will not sacrifice you to the wolves now."

"But you'll have to look at me and live with the knowledge that –"

"No," he whispered. "I will look at you and I will see the woman I love. No more and no less. What happened to you is in the past. I assume the person who did this to you…"

"He's dead," she said bluntly.

"Good," Charles replied. "I would hate to follow in our Mr. Bates's footsteps and be brought up on a murder charge."

"You would kill a man?" she asked in alarm.

"Maybe not kill him," he amended, "but I would protect your honor, Mrs. Hughes, regardless of whether or not we would share a last name and a bed."

She felt a smile begin at the corners of her lips. "I've never had someone say something both so romantic and so utterly ridiculous to me before," Elsie admitted. "You must be in love, truly."

"I am," he agreed with a small smile as well. "With you, my darling woman."

She slid the ring back onto her finger and exhaled a sigh born of relief; the band was heavy and reassuring on her skin, and she was pleased that he had not dissolved their understanding after all. She also felt delight in the fact that, god willing, he would be so understanding in future… especially when he realized with sudden alacrity that she could not cook to save her life and that she was far better at mending than dusting.

But by then, he would be trapped and he would be hers. And he would have to live with it. With her.

They held hands, he in his livery and she in her nightdress and dressing gown, watching over the children until the clock struck eleven. Then he gave her a gentle kiss and bid her good evening, promising to return in the morning and rouse her before the children awakened and needed attention.

She slept fitfully, her dreams a tattered jumble of memories and fears that might come to pass, so when he came to her about five, she was awake and dressed already, facing him with tautly-pressed lips and tired bags beneath her eyes. Without a word, he drew her into his arms and held her, knowing that she was at loose ends.

And he loved her.

END PART FOUR


	5. Chapter 5

Five:  
The New Nanny

The walk from the train depot was quite lovely; it allowed her to see the village and the bustle of life around her. Clearly, Downton was a place teeming with life and a certain kind of prosperity. Anwen McCabe was used to the close quarters of London now, where you could disappear into the crowd and hide in plain sight, and the openness of the countryside was not something she was comfortable with.

It had been far too long since she'd been in the country; since last she'd gone back to her parents' to see her children. They were taken with the loveliness of the countryside, though they owned a farm and did not so much work it themselves as hire out labor to keep the farm running. No, they enjoyed the simple prosperity on top of the wine distribution venture Papa had built from the ground up in Edinburgh. They were not gentry, not by birth, but by reputation and hard work, they were a part of a higher society than Anwen could claim to be.

After all, hadn't she left her husband, taken the children, and run? Her parents would not allow him past the doorway onto the threshold, so she knew Elisabeth and Gregory were safe, but he could still be tracking her movements, trying to ferret out which direction she'd taken flight. Bruises and broken bones would heal, but nothing else would. And why had she taken his suit, anyway? He was nothing but a right bastard, controlling, whiling away her meager fortune from Brandon's death.

Oh, how far she had fallen… Once upon a time, she had had everything at her fingertips – and now she had nothing but the bag in her hand and the knowledge that her children were safe from harm and loved, cared for, in a way that she could not do anymore. And the job that she was making her way to.

Always the job that kept her from plying her trade on the streets. She'd long since tired of moving from family to family, caring for children that were not her own, but she was no seamstress, and she could not fluff a pillow or dust. Her options were limited; her education was impeccable, her knowledge vast, and she was good with children. So she was a nanny… or a governess… sometimes, she was both.

The first glimpse she got of the Abbey took her breath away. It reminded her of Edinburgh Castle, punching her in the gut with a sad homesickness that made her feel like such a great, silly girl. She was thirty-eight years old, not some gawping child, after all! She kept walking along the path, startled when a motor car slowed to a crawl beside her and the door opened.

"Hello, there, do you require a lift?" came a cheerful voice from inside the motor.

"Mama, please, we cannot pick up every stranger we encounter," came another voice, haughty and proud. "Even if we are on our way back to the house."

"Mary, would it kill you to be kind?" came the rejoinder. "Please take a seat in the front by Heath, will you?"

Anwen smiled and said, "I should be remiss if I arrived at the front door, m'lady."

"See, mama? Not everyone wants or is in need of rescuing," came the haughty voice again. The car door closed again and they continued on.

Anwen would be content to continue on by herself, with only her thoughts to keep her company.

* * *

When the ladies alit from the motor car, Lady Grantham took Carson aside and said, "I do believe we met the new nanny on the road as we came back, Carson. She'll probably be another fifteen minutes or so behind us, on foot, though I did offer her a ride."

"Yes, m'lady," Carson said. "I will be certain to show her in directly when she arrives. His Lordship has been waiting to meet her and was quite put out by the further delay."

"Yes, well, delayed trains do happen, so he will have to get past that, won't he?" Lady Grantham said in a conspiratorial tone. "So you will see that tea is served in the sitting room after Mrs. McCabe arrives properly, yes?"

"Yes, m'lady."

"Thank you, Carson – I'm sure it will be a relief to Mrs. Hughes to be out of the nursery and back running things," Lady Grantham said with a bit of cheek in her tone. She gave him a significant look, then headed inside behind Mary, who was already ordering Anna around with firm instructions on what to do with the boxes Heath was unloading from their outing.

Once the boxes were unloaded and inside, Charles said, "Mr. Heath, would you please take the motor back onto the road and bring Mrs. McCabe to the house forthwith? I do believe she will be more amenable to a ride if Her Ladyship and Lady Mary are not present."

"Of course, Mr. Carson," Heath said with a bit of a smile. "I must admit that they are an intimidating pair."

"That will be enough, Mr. Heath," Carson said firmly.

As much cheek as the young man had, he was good at his job. And that was what mattered, really. He did not take dinner with the house staff, instead dining with the stable staff and the gamekeepers at the servants' quarters in the lodge, so Carson did not know him well. He only perceived what he was meant to see, he thought, so he hoped that Heath was the best man for the job. Until someone complained, it was what he must do. He was a friend of Mr. Branson's, traveling with him and Miss Sybbie from America, and as such, Charles wondered if it was quite right to employ the man over others who might be better suited and rather more… British. But, again, until complaints were made, it was a satisfactory arrangement.

He went inside and ordered the footmen to dispense with the parcels as Lady Mary had directed, then he went belowstairs to check on the kitchen. Mrs. Patmore was blustering and shouting again, but that was not unusual. What was unusual was the keen absence he felt caused by Mrs. Hughes's not being there to calm her again. Once he was done calming the storm and assuring Mrs. Patmore that, yes, dinner would not be completely undone if the lamb was without mint jelly and that a sauce of fresh mint and lemon would be a refreshing change, he withdrew from the kitchens and ran straight into what appeared to be the new nanny.

She dropped her bag in surprise, and he gracefully caught it, bringing it back up to her hands. "Mrs. McCabe, we've been expecting you," he said in a firm, reproachful voice.

"I'm afraid that train delays from passing cows are not something that one just… overcomes, sir," the woman rejoined with a small smile.

"I am Mr. Carson, the butler of Downton," he said. "His Lordship and Her Ladyship have requested you to meet them in the sitting room for tea before you are released to your duties and are introduced to the children."

"That will be lovely, thank you," she replied. "I assume that my room is adjacent to the nursery's bedrooms, so my things will need to be locked safely away until I am to go upstairs, please."

He raised an eyebrow. "You have something so valuable then?"

"Only photographs, but I would loathe to lose them, Mr. Carson, especially from someone snooping through my things," Mrs. McCabe said.

"My pantry will be safe," he commented.

"Why not the housekeeper's office?"

"Because our housekeeper is currently upstairs in the nursery and I will not enter her quarters without approval," he blustered. "Mrs. McCabe, I think you will need to check your tone and do well to remember that, though we have no control over your employment, Mrs. Hughes and I do command respect in this household – including yours."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Carson; I will control my tongue in future," she replied, suitably chastened.

He paused and studied the woman. She was small and thin, but amply proportioned, with deep blue eyes and hair that appeared to be black as raven's wings until the light came upon it, revealing it to be the darkest red he'd ever clapped eyes on. Mrs. McCabe reminded him of Elsie when she was younger, if he must be honest with himself. There was something in the bearing, in the manner, that stuck in his mind as being very Elsie Hughes.

"Please see that you do," he muttered, opening the door to his pantry. "Please put your bag behind my desk, and I will lock the door behind us, Mrs. McCabe."

"Thank you, Mr. Carson," she said softly.

He took her upstairs for tea with His Lordship and Her Ladyship, and hovered as he must. She clearly took it as an admonishment, because Mrs. McCabe held back and regulated her words very carefully. He watched her carefully, noting the way she composed herself, the way she reacted and did not react, and concluded that she must have been something of a lady of society once – or she was nothing but airs and graces donned to keep her employers happy. But he believed it was the former; there was no guile in her politeness or her bearing.

"I daresay that I do believe you shall do very nicely, Mrs. McCabe," Lord Grantham proclaimed. "Don't you think, Mary?"

"You cannot possibly be as abysmal as Miss Leighton was," Mary said in a voice that was neither cold nor warm. "I will not give a glowing recommendation as Papa, but I'm sure that you will be adequate to the task."

"Thank you, m'lady," Mrs. McCabe said. "Now, I was led to believe that your housekeeper has been keeping the nursery while I was in transit, so I should, of course, relieve her of her duties."

"Mrs. Hughes has been wonderful the last two days," Mary said, her voice growing chilly. "You will not make her feel as though she has done wrong in caring for the children, I should hope."

"Oh no, Lady Mary, of course not," Mrs. McCabe said, her brogue becoming more pronounced as she nervously set her cup back upon its saucer. "But I know how tired she will be and how she will want to resume her duties downstairs, and it would be unfair of me to not get stuck in straight away and allow her to go back to work."

Lady Grantham hid a smile. "Well, you may send Mrs. Hughes down to see me when you've relieved her – we have much to discuss," she said, pointedly looking at Charles. "And, Mr. Carson, you will be invited to take leave, seeing as how those discussions should not be overheard."

"Yes, m'lady," he said, wondering what on earth they could discuss… and then remembered the wedding in two weeks' time and wouldn't Elsie love to have a new frock to wear. He was woefully out of touch with ladies' lives, and he would have to get better.

"I will take Mrs. McCabe upstairs," Lady Mary said. "You can bring her things up later, Carson."

"Very well, Lady Mary," he replied.

As he cleaned up the tea, he wondered how his Elsie would find the impertinent young Scotwoman; he hoped she might find some offense that the others did not see. It unnerved him now that he'd noticed how much Mrs. McCabe reminded him of her. He did not like it. Not one bit.

* * *

Getting older was exhausting, Elsie came to realize in a short bloody hurry. Getting older and trying to keep up with young children was going to kill her. And where was that blasted nanny? She was meant to be in before luncheon, but it was already quarter of three and nowhere in sight was she!

Master George threw his tin train across the room, striking Marigold in the face. "George!" Elsie cried. "I never in a month of Sundays would expect a young gentleman as yourself to throw things." She scooped up Marigold as she began to wail miserably, holding her cheek. George looked annoyed at Elsie raising her voice at him, but then he burst into tears as well. With one screaming child on each hip and Miss Sybbie tugging on her skirts and asking for a glass of milk, Elsie felt a fair bit like crying herself.

The door was flung open unceremoniously and Lady Mary came in, a cry of, "Mrs. Hughes, what on earth –" on her lips. She immediately took Master George and comforted him into silence, and Miss Sybbie had gone straight to her Donk, leaving Elsie alone with Marigold, who stopped crying and clung tightly to her.

"Master George threw his train and did poor Marigold injury," Elsie said. "And when she began to cry, so did he. I'm afraid, Lady Mary, that I am not fit to be a nanny in any state of being."

"Good thing, then, that Papa and I have brought reinforcements," Lady Mary commented dryly. "Haven't we, Papa?"

Lord Grantham smiled and gave Miss Sybbie a kiss. "Yes, of course – Mrs. Hughes, I would like to introduce the new nanny, Mrs. McCabe."

Elsie blinked. Then she blinked again. And a third time, still not sure if her eyes were playing some horrible trick on her. She closed her mouth, knowing that His Lordship would not take kindly to her gaping in public. "Mrs. McCabe," she greeted, still wound up in Marigold's death grip, "it has been far… far too long."

Anwen smiled and said, "I did wonder when Mr. Carson said 'Mrs. Hughes' was the housekeeper, but… I –"

"You two know each other?" Mary inquired. "Oh, how droll – I suppose many Scots know each other well, with the clans and all…"

"We are cousins, Lady Mary," Elsie finally said. "Mrs. McCabe's father is my dear cousin Richard." It still hadn't really hit her, sunken in, that her bastard daughter was standing right in front of her, close enough to touch. "And I am the lass's godmother."

"Hardly a lass now, Aunt Elsie," Anwen said. "And who is this lovely lady you're holding?"

"That is Marigold," Lord Grantham said, "our ward."

A muscle in Mary's face twitched. "She will, of course, be the least of your duties, Mrs. McCabe," Mary said coldly. "This is my son, George, the heir."

"Yes, of course, m'lady," Anwen said with a helpless look at Elsie as she went to meet her new charge. "Hello, Master George. I hear tell that you like to play with trains – I do, too. I rode on a train today."

"Oooh," George said with a big smile.

"He likes to draw, too," Miss Sybbie piped up. "I'm Sybbie! We will have lots of fun together, won't we, Nanny?"

"Oh, I think we shall," Anwen promised with a smile. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Sybbie."

"It's almost time for the children's tea," Elsie spoke up. "I'll leave you all to get acquainted, then." She gently deposited Marigold onto the floor and sighed when the little girl clung to her skirt.

"Mama wished to speak to you, Mrs. Hughes," Mary commented. "She's waiting in the sitting room – I do believe it has to do with your wedding."

"Of course, m'lady – I'll be down to speak with her as soon as I carry my things back to my room," Elsie said, her heartbeat still very fast and furious in her chest. Maybe Anwen's aim had been to give her a heart attack; maybe she had known all along and this was her plot for revenge…

"Mrs. Hughes," His Lordship said, "I wish to thank you and Anna most heartily for taking on the additional burden of running the nursery in the absence of a nanny."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes," Sybbie echoed her precious Donk. "Donk, may I have two biscuits at tea, please?"

Elsie took the chance to retreat as quickly as she could, rushing into the bedroom and collecting her things before running altogether. By the time she'd put her things away and gone back downstairs, she was in a better frame of mind. "Sarah, will you please go and change the linens in the nanny's quarters? Mrs. McCabe should not be put out by me having slept in the bed last night."

"Of course, Mrs. Hughes," Sarah replied, abandoning the crockery she was piecing back together to hurry and do just that.

She went to the butler's pantry and found the door ajar. "Mr. Carson," Elsie greeted, going in and sitting down across from his desk, "I never thought I'd live to see the day I'd be too tired to boss anyone around."

He looked up and smiled at her. "And your impressions of the new nanny?"

"Oh, she's a delightful woman," Elsie said without hesitation. "His Lordship seems to have given his blessing – they were making quite good friends as I was leaving." She paused. "Of course, now I've been summoned by Her Ladyship, and I'm in no fit state to be anything but compliant, and I'm sure that's what she's banking on."

"How on earth do you conclude that she's a delightful woman from a few minutes' time with her?" he asked irritably. "She was rather forward and forthright when I spoke to her."

"Probably because you were very much a butler and bordering on rudeness," Elsie said. "She has never taken well to abruptness – not since she was a wee bairn in arms." She paused and sighed, closing her eyes. "I suppose I owe you an explanation, at least… Anwen is my cousin Richard's daughter – and my goddaughter." She fell silent and glanced away.

There was a long silence, then he said, "What does Anwen mean, Elsie?"

"It's Welsh," she said very quietly. "It means 'very fair, beautiful'. My Ma was Welsh, and my Da Scots, so we were always Scottish – but we learned Welsh and Gaelic, you see. And I'd always loved it… so my only child, of course, I'd name her that. And she was." Her face crumpled and she began to weep again. _Oh, what he must think of me now… I am such a sight!_

"Fair and beautiful as her mother," Charles said softly. "Dry your eyes, my love. I will not judge you, not in this."

"Mrs. McCabe – I did not know she'd been widowed or remarried," Elsie said quietly. "I stopped receiving anything but a Christmas package from home years ago." She sniffled indelicately, then sat up and wiped her eyes. "I must get upstairs or Her Ladyship will be upset."

"We will speak more of this later," he said gently. "If you are up to it. If not, nothing more will be said on the matter."

Denial and sweetness flowed from her Charles, and she found that she rather quite liked it. She got up and came over to give him a kiss, then whispered, "Meet me in the Grey Suite tonight, Charles."

His lips turned up in an almost smile. "Providing we are not both too tired –"

"Oh, we will both be very tired, Charles, but that does not mean that we cannot lie with one another and contemplate sleep in a happy world," she said softly. "I just do not want to be alone."

"Nor I," he agreed.

She gave him another gentle kiss and retreated. Now, to face Her Ladyship, and then dinner and an early night. Because she was very tired.

And she did not know if she could cope with anything else being thrown in her path.

END PART FIVE


	6. Chapter 6

Six:  
Stolen Moments

She made the bed herself and fluffed the pillows well. The heavy feather pillows were a wedding present from the Earl and Countess, as was the heavy down duvet, the linens, and the – well, the everything. It felt odd, not having to justify anything, for the expense was merely to be covered as part of the wedding account.

The wedding that was just around the corner. Elsie had not yet begun to fret about the wedding dress, though Her Ladyship certainly had. There had been a rather heated debate about whether or not she needed to wear white, and by the time they had settled upon dove grey, Elsie was tired and dismayed. So she had escaped before supper and come up to the rooms to ready them.

She puttered around, gently moving things and smiling. This was to be their new home, then, and she hoped that he would be pleased with the changes. Tonight would be a test run, away from prying eyes, to make certain that they would be all right. She flopped down onto the bed, intending to just rest her eyes.

She startled awake when the bedroom door opened. "Hello?"

"Shh, it's only me," Charles said. "I've brought you a sandwich since you missed dinner, and the leftover wine."

"I didn't intend to fall asleep," she said with a yawn.

"I know you didn't – perhaps the little scamps wore you out," he teased gently. "Up with you, Mrs. Hughes, and eat your dinner."

She did, watching him as he meted out the wine. "I love you," she said, not quite as an afterthought.

"And I you," he replied. "Though I might inquire as to why you think it important to share whilst eating a roast pork sandwich."

Elsie smiled; he really didn't know, did he? He didn't realize that her heart beat so much stronger when he was in the room, when he was close to her. That being together was as easy as breathing when she allowed it to be.

"It's always important to let people know that they are cared for," she finally said. "Especially when they've helped you very much over the last few horrible, badly timed, god awful days." She reached over and gently rested her hand on his arm. "Charles, thank you."

"You shouldn't thank me – I care very deeply for you, and when you are upset or in pain, so must I be," he replied. "Her Ladyship is worried about you."

"Yes, she said as much," Elsie sighed. "Without saying it at all."

"I am worried about you," he added.

She finished her sandwich and shrugged. "I'll be fine," she said. _Once things fall into place, once I can breathe again, once I know that we're shackled together and you won't leave me after all…_

"This is a lovely room," he commented.

She nodded and smiled. "Her Ladyship and Lady Edith have been going overboard," she admitted. "They've got a household account set up merely to pay for our wedding and reception – who would ever think we needed a reception? - and the refurbishment of the suite. I'm quite overwhelmed."

"They think kindly of you," he said firmly, passing her some wine. "It should not come as a surprise. You are a lovely woman."

"I wonder if they would feel the same way if they knew my secrets," she pointed out softly.

"My dear," Charles said, his eyes sparkling, "your secrets have nothing on some of the secrets in this house. They would barely bat an eyelash. The Family is not full of bad people –"

"But I do not worship them as you do," she reminded him. "And I would still like to box Lady Mary's ears from time to time."

"As do we all," he said in a pointed tone. "But… she will be mistress of the house soon enough. And then we are all in for it."

Elsie pursed her lips together. "I daresay, I hope I'm old and decrepit when that happens. Then I can speak my mind with impunity."

"Don't you already?" he teased softly, his fingers trailing soothingly up and down her arm, burning her through the thin fabric of her dress. "I do so love your Scottish fire."

"That's such a lie, Charles Carson – you're always and forever telling me off and disapproving of me speaking my mind," she scoffed.

"Ah, but there's the rub, love," he whispered, kissing her neck, then the smooth skin below her ear. "I can love your fiery nature from afar, but up close and personally, I should scold you to hold your tongue so we might have many happy years together here." She closed her eyes, trying not to react to the way his breath against her skin brought with it a certain kind of fire that seared through her. "Loving and bearing witness to such passions are not mutually exclusive."

She exhaled shakily, then whispered, "The first time you roused my ire –"

"It was within five minutes of your arrival," he reminded her with a deep chuckle.

"That was mere irritation," she muttered. "Do you remember the day I was out beating the rugs and you had to stop Bundting from taking advantage?"

"If I remember correctly, you were furious with me for not believing you could discourage the second footman yourself," he said quietly.

"I was holding a bloody carpet beater in my hand, after all," she reminded him.

"Yes, and I came away with the bruises to prove that," he said, laughing and capturing her lips with his. "And now I am the one you need protection from –"

"Pish," she breathed against his lips. "If needed protection from you, it would be a very sad day indeed, Mr. Carson. And I dare say that I can still beat a carpet within an inch of its proverbial life, so you should be quite afraid of me."

"I am, as ever, absolutely terrified of you," he said with mock seriousness. They dissolved into easy laughter peppered with small kisses and sweet caresses. He had to know what he was doing to her because she could barely keep her breathing steady; her heart thrummed in her chest like a caged bird and she fought to keep her hands steady as she sipped her wine.

The first time they had (_dare she even think it?_) made love, it had been after a bitter argument over one of the bloody maids – who, consequently, had been sacked for her misbehavior. Instead of the normal tone of discussion between them, everything had been harsh and cutting; he had even gone so far to insinuate that she could not control her half of the staff, while she pointed out furiously that she spent more time correcting _his_ half of the staff than **he** did. It had only been a few days into the new year, and already they had absolutely shattered their mutual agreement and pleasant discourse. After sacking the maid and disciplining the stable lad, there had been nothing left to do but to apologize to one another. But days had turned into a week, and they had still avoided one another, feeling like the rift was irreparable. She had wanted to give him back the lovely silver ring with the piece of rough cut golden quartz, but had been unsure if she was even welcome in his pantry again.

They had met in the linen cupboard completely by accident. She had been checking the wooden cases of new linens over to make certain the contents matched the invoice. He had come in to retrieve a cleaning cloth to mop up a spill. The silence had been awkward, all-encompassing, and then she had watched such great sadness play across his face. Neither of them enjoyed their spats, and she did not relish the idea that they would continue on in such… misery. So she had carefully set aside the invoice and had kissed him.

They could not do anything in the cupboard, mind, but that night they had snuck into a disused bedroom and had thrown all caution to the wind. After all, they were to be married – they were not yet deceased. And the tension between them was so god awful.

Their coupling had not been gentle, nor very romantic – it was desperate and needy. It was the only time she had willingly allowed a man to touch her; Charles was the only man that could touch her. He made her feel safe, even when they were…

His fingertips danced lightly across the back of her hand, and she bit her lip. "Charles," she whispered, her voice small and strangled even to her ears.

"Elsie," he rejoined, his voice rumbling deep in his chest. "I think these rooms will do quite nicely for us."

"Oh, good," she breathed, "because the alternative is upsetting Her Ladyship and the Lord knows we don't want to do that."

His lips twitched into a smile. "No," he agreed, "we do not wish to upset Her Ladyship." As usual, he was leaving things up to her; she always initiated _relations_ between them, as if he did not feel the need to bother her with his desires. _As if_ she would ever feel bothered by his wanting to show her affection in this manner. But she did appreciate him allowing her the small freedom of deciding when and where their needs would be met; especially after all she had been through so long ago.

They sat next to one another on the edge of the bed, her feet dangling, his touching ground. His left arm was across her the lower part of her back, his left hand gently caressing hers, twining their fingers together, and she had never in a month of Sundays felt so cherished, so loved, as in this stolen moment between them. She made a decision then; that she would not overlook such a gift as to love and be loved in return. Not ever again.

Love was not just a clinch, their bodies moving together in a small space, joined and desperately seeking completion. Love was so much more. The smell of his aftershave, of the boot blacking, of his pomade, of remnants of silver polish, all reminded her of him in ways that she could not explain. They were pieces of him that she adored. The way his soft hands caressed her skin in secret, and in public now, fleeting and gentle. The way he looked at her as if she were the most important thing in his world now; but he would never show that to their employers, it was a glance destined only for her. Love was the leftover wine and the scraps of food from the kitchen; love was indulging in a walk in the gardens for a few minutes in the afternoon and stealing a kiss. Love was accepting that neither of them was infallible, that they could both be wrong – _and sometimes at the same time with opposing views_!

Love was _this_.

Elsie licked her lips and leaned her head on his shoulder; she knew he thought she was fragile after today, but she wasn't. She was no more fragile than the piece of crockery that Sarah had been repairing earlier in the day – maybe, even, she was stronger for all of the dings, chips, and outright breaks she had endured. He pieced her back together with loving care and for so long that he hadn't even realized that he'd done it.

After a moment or two, she straightened up and murmured, "We should get ready for bed. Tomorrow will come early, and it is Sunday, so they will read the banns again –"

"I would marry you right now if they hadn't insisted on being so blasted proper about things," he muttered.

She smiled and turned his head to face her. "That is the way it is done here," she reminded him gently. "No skulking off into the night and eloping… except for Lady Sybil." The smile vanished from her lips, the happiness she had felt only moments before retreating again. "But she was special, and we are not."

"You are the most special, most beautiful –"

She kissed him then to silence his stammering words. She did not need to hear them to know how he felt; she felt the same, always had done. He deepened the kiss after a moment's hesitation, their tongues dancing against one another, begging and pleading without words to sully them.

Loving him had been inconvenient for so long that she barely knew how to react to the convenience of being loved in return, and so eagerly. They helped one another out of their clothes and underpinnings, carefully laying them aside or hanging them in the wardrobe so they would not be wrinkled come morning; practicality still won the day, even then their eyes burned so brightly with want, desire, and passion across the room.

And then he smiled a smile so gentle, so content, that it took her breath away, desire pooling in her belly, making her knees weak. Who knew that he would be content to look at her overly fleshy body, growing plump with the years gone by? Who knew that his eyes lit up like a boy's when he saw her breasts and the curve of her belly? Only she knew these things, and it gave her another desperate thrill. If she were a proper lady, she would insist on nightclothes and him chastely on top of the duvet, but she was not proper, and she certainly wasn't a lady. She was _his_.

"It's… nice… to be appreciated," she said softly, bending down to set her shoes neatly by the dressing chair and vanity. His eyes were wide and dark with lust when she looked back at him, and she smiled softly. "Charles… marriage between us may not be easy. But at least this part will always be."

"Making love is not easy," he said. "It is difficult, because I do not know if I please you enough or –"

"You've never not pleased me enough," she murmured, heading back to the enormous bed. It took an almost Herculean effort to get up into it, and she wondered if maybe, she should appropriate a footstool from the attic stores so she didn't strain anything getting into bed at night. She smiled and patted the bed beside her. "I would tell you if you did not please me, Charles."

He sat down beside her, twining their fingers together again. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world to be naked together, to be in love, to be vulnerable and proud of it. They kissed, they touched. His hand drifted over her breasts, her belly, came to rest between her legs, eliciting a moan of delight. Her hand made right for his erection like she was a wanton girl straight from the farm with no more manners than a barnhand.

But it was good. They were good. They were in love and it meant all the world that they could touch and breathe and taste one another. They had waited so long that waiting was no longer an option: now they just took and partook of all the things they both wanted so desperately.

The pillows were lovely, plump, and did not give way easily. Elsie sighed and moaned softly as she sank into them, Charles's lips moving over her right breast, his tongue teasing across her nipple. Her hips arched and she whimpered, unable to stay silent. The things he made her feel seemed unreal; she felt guilty for finding so much pleasure while he did not. His kisses drifted lower, down her belly, into the curls of hair between her thighs, and she gasped for breath when he found his target.

He brought her to heights she had never dreamed existed; delight, abandon, wanton desire all warred within her for dominance. She shuddered and quaked, wondering if her heart might just give out on her before morning. And then he pulled away with a small smile, gently grabbing her by the hip and the waist, rolling her onto him till she was straddling his hips.

She blushed and smiled, wondering if he meant she should… oh, but that wasn't very dignified or –

Dear lord, who cared about dignity when they could do this instead? His hands held her hips as she lowered herself onto him, a drawn-out breath of, "Charles," escaping her lips. The sensation of exquisite fulfillment made her eyelids close, and she balled her hands into fists, clamping them against his ribs, the only sign that she was fighting the want, the desire.

"Elsie," he groaned back, his fingers digging into her hips.

They moved in tandem, like wheels on a bicycle or the wheels on Miss Sybbie's roller skates, seeking something so close and yet so very far away. They kissed and tasted, worshipping and adoring. His hands moved up her body to fondle – _dear lord, was that even the correct word?_ – her breasts, caressing the soft flesh, flicking over her nipples, driving her on.

It felt like a white hot flash moved straight up her spine, and she was lost.

When she came back to earth, she had collapsed against his chest. And she wondered if there was anything more glorious than a naked Charles Carson? Probably not.

END PART SIX


	7. Chapter 7

Seven:  
A Road Less Traveled

Anwen finished tidying the nursery and sighed. She was on her own for the majority of the afternoon, The Family taking the children into Ripon for clothes fittings. Why they didn't just have the seamstress come to the Abbey to take measurements, she did not know. The whispers she'd heard were that they weren't just any clothes – they were wedding clothes, so they were special in some way that normal clothes were not.

She didn't remember who took care of her flower girl's dress or her ring bearer's suit when she got married, honestly. She didn't remember much of the planning of the wedding, just picking flowers and choosing Brussells lace and seed pearls for her elegant wedding gown. And she remembered protesting a court train, and losing to her father, who had blustered about respectability.

And she remembered being elated that Brandon had met her at the head of the aisle, had not jilted her, and that he was the most wonderful man she had ever known in her life.

Anwen huffed and shook herself. She'd already settled into her room and cleaned up the children's bedroom and the main nursery, so what to do now?

The only logical answer was to go belowstairs.

The hustle and bustle of the house at large was not something she was used to; she was used to far less staff and fewer people at beck and call. She came around the corner into the kitchen, and the cook shouted, "And what exactly do you think you're doing in here?"

"Might I have a cup of tea?" Anwen asked. The force behind the woman's blustering fury unnerved her.

The assistant cook smiled over at her. "I just took a pot in to Mrs. Hughes," she said. "Since you're new, I'll take you to her parlor. I'm Daisy."

Anwen smiled and shook the young woman's hand. "Anwen," she murmured.

"You're from Scotland, too?" Daisy asked as they walked through the corridors to the Housekeeper's Parlor. "Mrs. Hughes says it's ever so nice there –"

Anwen smiled just a little. "Aye, I miss it," she agreed. "Except the cities are dirty and overcrowded."

"But that's everywhere – have you been to London?" Daisy asked innocently.

"I was just positioned there," Anwen replied.

"Then why'd you come to dreary Yorkshire, then?" Daisy asked with a chuckle.

"Because it's closer to home," Anwen said honestly.

Daisy knocked on a door. "Mrs. Hughes?" she said, stepping inside. "The new nanny would like a cuppa – Mrs. Patmore is going to explode if I make another, so I thought you could share."

"Of course," came the reply.

Daisy came back and said, "Go on in – Mrs. Hughes isn't that very stern. She's a good Housekeeper. She'll see you right, Anwen."

"Aye, I know she will," Anwen replied with a tight smile. She'd found out just how right Elisabeth Hughes had seen her when Anwen had first been on the run, depositing her children with the people she still thought of as her parents. But they weren't really, were they? Not when they had so very rudely informed her that she was no better than the woman who had borne her. Secrets, lies… and she was no better than a servant now, less a lady of the house and more the drudge that was hidden away and did not exist.

Maybe it was better this way; at least it was more honest.

Anwen went into the parlor and sat primly on the guest chair. "Mrs. Hughes," she said quietly, "I'm sorry to disturb, but I found myself lacking in gainful employment this afternoon with the children in Ripon."

Mrs. Hughes raised an eyebrow. "You can always help me with the accounts," she said. "As I recall, you've always been quite good with sums."

Anwen nodded and sighed. "Yes, ma'am," she agreed softly. "I can do that." She was silent, then said, "I'm sorry I didn't go to church yesterday."

"The nanny rarely does," Mrs. Hughes replied. "The children are still too young to benefit from sitting in church, unfortunately."

"So there's to be a wedding soon?" Anwen said. "Is it Lady Edith's –"

Mrs. Hughes gave pause in pouring the second cup of tea. "No," she said softly, "Lady Edith has lived with much heart ache and heart break these last few years. If she ever stands at the altar again, it will be a relief."

"Well, this wedding seems to be a very prominent –"

"It is my wedding," Mrs. Hughes said quietly. "The Crawleys have taken it and run with it like children and scissors."

Anwen choked on her tea. "You?" she breathed. "You're getting married?"

"I am," Mrs. Hughes replied. "And of course you're welcome to come – I'd thought of ringing your parents and asking them, but it's such a way from Edinburgh to Downton and hardly worth their time to come."

"What about Aunt Becky, then?" Anwen asked.

The older woman looked away and muttered, "She will be unable to come."

Anwen nodded; she had met Aunt Becky once. At the time, she had seemed nice… until she had pulled Anwen into a crushing grip and refused to let go. She'd been six at the time, and it was the first time she'd actually feared for her life. To be honest, she was glad that Becky Hughes was locked away under care – she was not stable, and she certainly was not likely ever to be so again. "Who is the groom, then?" she inquired. "Certainly not the baker in the village…"

"No, I'd never marry a man just for his éclairs and chocolate pie," Mrs. Hughes scoffed. "Though you must try them both sometime; Mr. Bradley is a master of his craft. No, no, I'm marrying closer to home. You've met Mr. Carson, aye?"

You could have knocked Anwen out of her chair with a bloody feather. "You're marrying the butler?" she squeaked. "That big… brute? Do you know how improper that is? Does he treat you well? My god –"

The change in Mrs. Hughes demeanor was immediate. Her jaw clenched with force and her hands retreated back from the desk into fists in her lap. "I am marrying Charles Carson and that is that; it is none of your concern if it is proper or not, and the Crawleys are pleased for us. He treats me well and with kindness, which is clearly more than I can say of my own family by your reaction." The words were cold and angry, clipped.

She bit her lower lip, then murmured, "Aunt Elsie… I didn't mean to offend you. I just – no one asked those questions of me. He was proper and kind at first, because he was seducing me. But once the wedding was past and he was blowing through my money, the money for the children, I could do nothing to stop him. I spent so much time in the hospital ward with broken bones and surgeries so I might walk again after he threw me down the stairwell." Anwen refused to meet Mrs. Hughes's eyes. "I just… do you know him as well as you think?"

"I know him better than I think," the older woman said with certainty. "Charles Carson is a good man; the best man I could hope to find. And we love one another very much." She paused. "Is that why you're in service now? Because your husband…"

"I left him," Anwen said in a firm tone. "He did not go in for divorce, so my suit was refused. I could not file charges because I promised to 'honor and obey' him in my vows, and clearly, I did neither if I was thrown down the stairs by his hands. The police told me that to my face." She took a sip of tea, glad of the scalding heat on her tongue. "So I took the children and left. They are with Ma and Da. They are safe. But I am not; he's been following me, inquiring after me." She smiled sadly. "I… I will end up dead at his hands if I return to him, so I will not. But running is so very tiring, Aunt Elsie."

It was. Everything was so tiring now. Sitting across the table from the woman who had given her birth was exhausting; pretending to be a well-adjusted human being was exhausting. Holding in her problems was… overwhelming. She had thought once or twice about just… throwing herself into the Thames and giving up. But she had not.

"Of course it is," Mrs. Hughes sighed. "Well, know that you will be sheltered here and you will want for nothing. If your husband comes looking for you, he will be turned away empty-handed. Even Mr. Barrow does not stand for abuse of that kind between a husband and a wife – wretched two-face that he is."

Anwen smiled just a little at that. "But… Mr. Carson loves you?"

"Aye, we love one another very much," Elsie said softly. "Have done for ages."

Anwen nodded and looked down into her cup of tea. "I wish you both every happiness, then," she said quietly. "As any good daughter would do."

The silence was deafening.

* * *

Elsie didn't know what to say; what could she say? What could she possibly say in the wake of that confession that would not sound as if she were hurt or judging or… or worse?

The silence dragged on.

Until Anwen broke it with a whisper of, "Of course I know – I have done since I left my lass and lad with Ma and Da. We fought about it, whether or not I should leave them at all. And then he said I was no better than my mam, leaving me on their doorstep because she had an indiscretion."

"It was not an indiscretion," Elsie finally spoke up, her voice firm and sharp. "And anyone that says that it was deserves to suffer the way I did."

Anwen looked up, startled. "You were –"

"I was forced," Elsie ground out very quietly. "By the master of the house in a cupboard beneath the stairs. I was lucky – my da died and I tendered my resignation and ran home. But then Becky and William's farm burnt to the ground and…" She closed her eyes, willing the tears to stay back. "Your Ma and Da couldn't have bairns… so they accepted you and loved you and cared for you –"

"Until I disappointed them again," Anwen whispered. "And then they shut me out. They did nothing to help me, just my children. I am no better than if I had been shit on someone's shoe, Aunt Elsie – to them, I am no one now."

"Anwen Rebecca Hughes," Elsie said, her voice low and soft, "you are not now, nor have you ever been, a no one. You are… my daughter… and you have always been that, even if I did not claim you." The words pained her, but they were truth. "You are strong and you are loved."

Anwen was near tears, her voice shaking miserably as she said, "Does your Mr. Carson know?"

Elsie nodded and whispered, "He does. And he does not think any less of me because of it."

"But he thinks less of me already because I've been the cause of so much pain for you," Anwen said quietly. "Of course, I should… I should move on. Leave you alone in your happiness."

"No," Elsie said, the firmness and venom in the single syllable surprising her. "You should not. You are safe here. I will allow no harm to come to you, Anwen. If you leave and you believe that you are no one, then no one you shall become. And I cannot allow that."

"But you didn't even want me enough to keep me –"

Elsie held up a hand to silence her. "Anwen, I was not in a position to take care of you, myself, and Becky. I'm still not in a position where I can confidently say that things will be cared for if I were to die, but at least you're well-raised and polite, if a bit daft, and my sister is well-cared for." She took a deep breath, then added, "I know it might seem like I just… threw you over. But I didn't. Your parents could not have bairns. I could not raise a bairn on my own. But you must believe I never stopped thinking about you, worrying about you. You were still my godchild, and I was responsible for you if something happened. I would not have taken that on if I didn't care."

"I know you cared, but – did you ever love me?"

_More than you could ever imagine._ "Yes," Elsie whispered. "From the moment you drew breath and looked up at me with those big eyes of yours, I have loved you, Anwen. But love… isn't always enough."

"I've asked you all the questions I've had since I found out and… I still feel so… empty."

Elsie looked at her for a long moment, and sighed. "I ask myself questions like that every day," she said quietly. "The end results are that I have come to despise myself for the things that I have done. And I try to work harder to be a better person, but I don't know how." She met Anwen's gaze and murmured, "So we must try to forgive and move on. I will always be Aunt Elsie to you. And you will always be you."

"But you aren't just Aunt Elsie – you're my mam," Anwen protested. "And I –"

"No one needs know but us," Elsie said very softly. "I would not serve to cause His Lordship any more embarrassment than needs must. I've chosen my path and walked it alone for years; now, Charles will walk it with me. You needn't run away, but you mustn't… complicate matters."

The silence returned, judging, judgmental. It was finally broken by Anwen. "I think that I'll go back to the nursery before they return," she said very quietly. "It will give me a chance to smarten up, look like I've not been crying."

"I think that would be for the best, yes," Elsie agreed. "There's nothing worse, honestly, than Lady Mary taking '_a concern_' over you." She paused. "Unless it's His Lordship doing it, and then you might as well kiss your backside goodbye."

Anwen laughed softly. "I am sorry – I didn't mean to burden you…"

Elsie got up, came round the desk, and wrapped her arms around her daughter. "You are no burden, Anwen," she whispered. "I am sorry for many things, but you are no burden to me."

There came a knock on the door, then it was flung open with force by someone who didn't care to wait for an answer. "Stupid ninny dropped saffron in the wrong dish and we've to start again," Mrs. Patmore huffed, her face beet red.

Elsie pulled away from Anwen like she'd been struck. "Of course; will we need to change the menu to make up for it or –"

"No, I think I've enough time to redo it, but we were down to the last few threads of saffron, so I'm not certain we'll have enough for tomorrow's dinner," Mrs. Patmore said, glaring at Anwen.

Anwen who was up on her feet and stammering, "Aunt Elsie, I'll just go back to nursery now –" And she was away as quickly as her feet could take her.

Elsie sighed and went with Mrs. Patmore to the storage cupboard and they found that, indeed, saffron was in short supply. The normal spice order was made twice a month, and it had just been last week that it had been put in, anyway. She was concerned that if they made another order, it would set a dangerous precedent.

Mrs. Patmore said, "So who's that ninny, then? She's nervous as a kitten."

"She has need to be," Mrs. Hughes replied with annoyance. "I'll have to put in a special order for the saffron and make a rush. Or perhaps, I can see if we can acquire what we need from one of the other houses and replenish it from our stores at a later date."

Mrs. Patmore huffed. "Aunt Elsie?" she said pointedly.

"Mrs. McCabe is my goddaughter," Mrs. Hughes snapped. "And you would do well to hold your tongue. There will be no favoritism in this house, Mrs. Patmore, even if she is close to me."

"Oh really?" Mrs. Patmore said snarkily. "We'll see about that."

Elsie wanted to slap her, but it would do no good.

Of all the things she had to worry about, she was grateful at least in some small measure that Sarah O'Brien was not around to gossip about the sudden turn of things in the house. She only had to deal with the condemnation of blasted Thomas Barrow and Beryl Patmore.

She handed over the small glass jar with the last of the precious saffron threads and prayed that she could keep a clear head.

END PART SEVEN


	8. Chapter 8

Eight:  
A Feeling of Calm Before the Storm

She was distracted, tired, irritable – and he did not like it. He sensed that she was uncomfortable with the way Anwen came up in the talk amongst the servants, all wanting to know what Mrs. Hughes's impressions were, since she was her godmother and all sorts. Charles wanted to swat them all away like annoying flies; how dare they?

The only time she did not seem to be upset was when they were together. She seemed to draw strength from him, was more easily relaxed in his company. He did not want to leave her, but their duties made that a futile, thoughtless gesture.

It was the third night in a row that he'd been awakened by his door opening almost silently and a soft wave of Lilas perfume had enveloped him as she crept into his bed. He quietly scooted against the wall, turning on his side until she grew comfortable, spooned tightly against him, her bottom pressed against his groin. He knew she was not there for sexual reasons, just because she needed a bit of comfort. And by four, she would creep away as silently as she'd come. But for those few short hours, they were happy and comfortable together.

But then breakfast came, and a new day full of challenges. Today, they were preparing for the arrival of Sir Gerald and Lady Frye from the Highlands near Iverness; they were staying for a few days in progress to London for the wedding of Lady Frye's brother, Lord Campbell. The Crawleys had been invited to the wedding, as well, and would be accompanying the Fryes to London. Sir Gerald being related, however distantly, to Lord Flincher made them family of a sort. And, of course, Lady Frye was in a bit of a delicate condition, so being close to a hospital and staying well with distant relatives would ease the journey. But then again, it made for such a headache belowstairs because they all knew what women with child were like: tempermental and prone to very odd food requests.

Charles caught Elsie coming downstairs with her arms piled high with linens. "Mrs. Hughes, what on earth are you playing at?" he inquired gruffly.

"The maids are having a time getting things squared away," she explained with a tired puff of breath, "so I volunteered to clean the nursery. I'm just having a bit of trouble with the stairs this morning."

"Your knee?" he asked softly, with great familiarity.

She nodded and frowned. "I will be all right," she promised. "I'll take an aspirin before I go up again."

"How is Anwen coping?"

"Well," Elsie answered with a bit of a smile. "The children think she is the best thing since biscuits and warm milk. And she can handle all three by herself, which makes things much easier for His Lordship and Her Ladyship as far as the budget goes."

"Allow me to take these to the laundry for you," Charles volunteered, taking the linens from her arms. "There is no point in you doing yourself more injury three days before our wedding if it can be avoided."

She hesitated a moment, then smiled. "Only three days, then?"

He gave her a dour look, softened by the hint of a smile in his eyes. "Surely with all of your sums and tidy inventories, I assume that you can count, Mrs. Hughes," he said in a very grave tone.

"Of course I can count," she scoffed. "Today is Friday, and on Monday morning, we will be wed." She smiled then; a truly brilliant, beautiful smile. "But until then, Mr. Carson, we have a job to do," Elsie said in a firm tone. "And part of our job is making sure everything is ready for the Fryes' visit."

He rolled his eyes. "Don't remind me," Charles muttered. "The last time Sir Gerald stayed, he was quite enamoured with a housemaid. I can only hope he has curbed his instincts as a boundless cad for his wife's sake."

"It is not our place to speculate," Elsie reminded him gently. "Thank you for taking those to the laundry – I need to return upstairs and finish the tidying."

"Be careful," he warned.

She gave him an annoyed look, and turned on her heel, heading back the direction from whence she'd come. And he headed to the laundry with a pile of dirty linens, hoping that he would not get anything too awfully nasty upon his person in transit.

* * *

"Nanny," Master George said quietly, "can I help Mrs. Hughes?"

"Oh, no, Master George," Mrs. Hughes said from her place on the floor where she was trying to bring a stain out of the carpet. "A young gentleman such as yourself should not be worried about such things. And your mama would be very upset with me if you were."

"But I made the mess," Master George protested with a small pout.

"It was an accident," Anwen said kindly. "No one meant to make a mess, and it is Mrs. Hughes's job to clean it up, Master George. Just as it is my job to care for you, Miss Sybbie, and Marigold."

"What is my job, then?" Master George asked.

"When you are old enough, you will do as your – as Donk does," Anwen said, trying to stifle a chuckle at the ridiculous nickname Miss Sybbie had given her grandfather.

George paused, nodding a little, satisfied with the answer. "Yes, Nanny," he agreed, then headed off to play blocks with Marigold. In a few short moments, the two were making a tower and giggling.

Mrs. Hughes finally muttered, "Anwen, I need help up – my knee has had a funny turn all day."

Anwen immediately helped her up from the floor and smiled just a little. "I'm sorry I haven't been downstairs to see you – but the children are…"

"I know," Mrs. Hughes replied, wincing as she put too much weight on her bad knee. "You are doing only what you must, love. And you do me proud by it."

"I wish… that circumstances were different and I could introduce you to Elisabeth and Gregory, to see how proud they would make you –"

"No need," Mrs. Hughes murmured. "They are yours; they are mine by extension. I am proud of them only for that." She smiled and said, "Now I'm done with my work, I must get downstairs before the guests arrive and coordinate with the kitchen. Do you have any special requests for the children's tea?"

"Marigold is quite keen for cinnamon sugar on her scone, but other than that, I can think of nothing special," Anwen said after a moment's quiet thought.

"Is there anything that you would like?" Mrs. Hughes asked, her voice gentle and strong in the same breath.

"No, Mrs. Hughes, I daresay that I am blessed with a roof over my head and a job where I feel useful," Anwen answered. "And isn't that all that matters?"

The mask slipped for a moment and Mrs. Hughes was replaced by Elsie. "Affection," she said softly, "matters, too."

"No," Anwen said quietly, knowing that if anyone abovestairs knew their tenuous connection, they would likely both be out on their ears. It was enough that they knew, that Mr. Carson knew – and would keep his silence. "Not anymore, Mrs. Hughes."

Mrs. Hughes nodded, not upset, but with dignity. "I wish you did not believe that to be true, my girl," she said very softly.

Anwen watched her leave, wanted so badly to scream and cry and throw herself into Elsie's arms and beg for a mother's love, but she was an adult. She was no longer the little girl who needed reassuring; she was meant to reassure herself now.

It was too bad that she could do no such bloody thing.

* * *

The gathering of staff was small this time; Sir Gerald and Lady Frye were not big enough fish in the sea of nobility to warrant the full turn-out. So Thomas manned the door whilst Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes waited quietly near the family to be introduced.

A very petite, very pregnant, young woman alit from the motor car with Moseley's assistance. She was pale, with freckles, and very curly medium auburn hair. Her eyes were hazel and her manner very pleasing. "Oh, Cora, it's so good to finally meet you at last – Gerry has gone on and on about you," came her sweet, soft-spoken Scottish lilt.

Elsie found that, with the passage of time, her homesickness would only return when she was confronted with such things. And then she thought of craggy hillsides and green meadows filled with sheep and cows, of whiskey and song, of all the things she had left behind.

"Sir Gerald, welcome back to Downton," Lord Grantham greeted, offering his handshake. "It has been several years –"

Sir Gerald seemed to Elsie's eyes to be about thirty, with a cheerful smile and dark hair and eyes; a Scotsman who had lived in the Lowlands most of his life, blurring the lines between Yorkshire and Scotland. "It has been far too long, Lord Grantham – thank you for allowing us the pleasure of staying with you on our way to London. Shrimpy did say that you were quite amenable, and my darling Elisabeth is clearly in need of a rest now."

Lady Frye rolled her eyes and sighed. "Gerry, do be a love and stop fretting like an old maid. I am pregnant, not infirm. I will not break if I bump into something, and I do not need coddling." She leaned over and whispered something into Lady Grantham's ear, and both women fell to laughter.

Lady Grantham smiled and said, "Lady Frye, allow me to introduce you to our butler and housekeeper – Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes will be very much in charge of making certain that your stay is quite comfortable. Mrs. Hughes has been good enough to take on the role of lady's maid for you while you are here, and has taken the liberty of speaking to Mrs. Patmore about your dietary needs. Have you not, Mrs. Hughes?"

"Aye, m'lady," Elsie said with a gentle curtsey. "I look forward to assisting you, Lady Frye."

"Oh, please do call me Elisabeth – I'm afraid I've been brought up a little less than a lady, and it does bother me," Lady Frye said with a small smile. "May I call you Mrs. Hughes?"

"You may, m'lady," Elsie replied.

"And Carson will act as your valet, Sir Gerald," Lord Grantham said with a smile.

"Of course, the exception will be on Monday morning," Lady Grantham added. "For Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes are to be married at nine in the morning. And then we shall all come home for a lovely breakfast and a grand party."

Elsie pursed her lips together, trying to keep the flush in her cheeks at bay, not saying a word. Lady Grantham certainly knew how her words could cause the most damage in one fell swoop, didn't she?

Sir Gerald shook Mr. Carson's hand and smiled. "Congratulations, old chap!" he said with enthusiasm. "Good on you."

Lady Frye smiled as well and echoed her congratulations quietly. "I'm sorry, but may I adjourn to our rooms now, please? I'm afraid I feel quite weary," she said.

"Of course," Lady Grantham exclaimed. "Mrs. Hughes, will you be so kind –"

"Yes, m'lady," Elsie said, relieved to be getting away. "M'Lady Frye, will you please walk with me? I will show you the Blue Room, and we will get you and the bairn comfortable."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes," Lady Frye murmured. Once they were well away from everyone else, she said, "I know all this pomp and circumstance must drive you round the bend – the English still refer to us Scots as uncivilized heathens."

"It is not so bad; I am used to it," Elsie said with a small smile. "You say you were not quite brought up a lady…"

"My father was an aristocrat, but when he died, it was my mother who held the strings," Lady Frye said with a sad smile. "She remarried and I was sent away to school. I came home for Christmas holiday and my mother took my brother and me to live with Grandda and Granny, and they were only ever upper middle class. Gerry rescued me from a fate worse than death – being married to a bloody fishmonger. So I try for his sake; I know his family is very grand, and we… are not so much. Even though I was the daughter of an Earl, I am no better than anyone else." Once the door to the Blue Room was opened, the young woman was kicking off her shoes and all but springing up onto the bed. "Oh, it feels so good to lie down, Mrs. Hughes – we've been traveling forever and the baby does not care for it."

Elsie found herself smiling at the young woman's carefree way of expressing herself. These young things nowadays were so much better at it, weren't they? After all, hadn't it taken her and Charles what seemed an intolerably long time to sort things out? "Is there anything I can get you, Lady Frye?"

Lady Frye rolled over and peered at her. "Mayhaps," she replied. "Is Hughes your married name or your maiden?"

"Does it matter?"

"Aye, it does – you've got the look of my Grandda, you see, and he's a Hughes. Richard Hughes."

Elsie froze where she stood. "Oh, aye," she murmured weakly. "Dicky is my cousin."

"Well, they are arriving tomorrow and staying in the village at the Grantham Arms," Lady Frye commented. "Maybe you should go see them, seeing as how they're not likely to receive an invitation to the Abbey."

"I shouldn't want to intrude," Elsie said quietly.

"You see, we are all traveling to London for my brother's wedding," Lady Frye added cheerfully. "He is marrying a very lovely girl – a Russian princess, though that means very little now. Her grandfather was a Grand Duke and… well, it doesn't matter. She was born here in England, for her father was a diplomat and they weren't allowed to return after the Revolution. So…"

Elsie felt her shoulders begin to slump under the weight of the strain she was under. "M'Lady, I need to see to a few of my other duties. Will you please ring if you need me?" she said in soft, even tones, though she thought she might panic.

"Have I offended you, Mrs. Hughes?" Lady Frye asked, suddenly hurt. "Is that why you're rushing away?"

"No, m'lady," Elsie said very quietly. "I just have quite a bit of work to do and very little time to do it in, as is. I should not like to neglect you and your bairn, m'lady."

"Stop calling me that – we are practically family!" Lady Frye exclaimed in dismay. "Won't you please call me Elisabeth and I can call you –"

"You will call me Mrs. Hughes," Elsie said in her most no-nonsense tone. "You will call me that because you are the wife of a Knight of the Realm and I am a housekeeper. It does not matter if we are blood relations; that is the way of things, m'lady."

The young woman scowled, and then Elsie saw it – she saw herself and her mother in the girl's anger and sadness. She was scolding her granddaughter and…

And she knew, suddenly, with no trace of doubt, what she must do.

"M'lady, I must go," Elsie said, retreating.

She ran into Charles on the first floor, looking at him through eyes that were both dazed and full of dread. "Mr. Carson, where is Her Ladyship?" she asked. "I must speak with her."

"Mrs. Hughes?" he questioned.

She placed her hand on his forearm for just a moment, then whispered, "Charles, I must speak with Lady Grantham. And if it is for naught… if I am gone by morning… know that I love you with every fiber of my being. And that it is not your fault." She drew up to her full height, straightening her spine. "Please tell me where she is."

"Lady Grantham has gone up to the nursery," he said, his eyes dark with barely restrained fear.

"I love you," she whispered.

Each step took away a bit of her courage, a bit of the need for her to confess, to do right by her family… her employers. And why should she be so self-righteous and try to fix things now? Hadn't she mucked them up enough before?

Because she was a grandmother, and about to become a great-grandmother.

Because she had had a hand in breaking her daughter's spirit.

Because the pressure to keep silent was just too much now.

And if she was asked to leave, she would do it.

If her world was to come crashing down around her, so be it.

But she would feel clean, untainted for the first time since she was but a slip of a lass.

She would.

END PART EIGHT


	9. Chapter 9

Nine:  
Dark Truths

Cora bounced Sybbie on her knee and smiled. "I think we should do something very exciting for your first trip to London," she said, giving the little girl a kiss. "What do you think? We might go to the Zoo or the Park and play…"

Sybbie smiled widely and nodded. "Please, Granny," she agreed.

Cora murmured, "Well, that settles it, then – you and Granny are going to go have some real fun together, just the two of us."

"Does that mean that –"

"The children will be coming with us to London, yes, Nanny McCabe," Cora said, "as will you. It is only proper to take one's nanny along, isn't it, Sybbie, darling?"

"Uh-huh, Granny," Sybbie said with no small measure of excitement. "I like the train! We go very fast."

Cora loved these small, stolen moments with her grandchildren. They did not happen often, but she relished them when they did occur. Sybbie was her favorite – though she loathed to admit it – because she reminded her so much of Sybil. Darling, sweet Sybil. George could be such an up-tight, bratty little thing, just like Mary had been. There were times she just wanted to turn him over her knee and put the fear of god into him… but then Nanny McCabe settled the boy down again and all was right with the world. And Marigold… she really didn't know what to make of the timid girl.

She was about to suggest a game to Sybbie and George when the door to the nursery opened. "M'lady?"

"Mrs. Hughes," Cora sighed; _busted_. Robert would have a field day with this. It just wasn't the done thing to take an active interest in one's progeny. "How can I help you?"

"I need to speak with you in private, m'lady," Mrs. Hughes said. Cora watched her for a moment, looking for any sign that it was something that could wait, but her housekeeper's entire demeanor screamed urgency. She knew that something had been troubling Mrs. Hughes for several weeks, and she could tell that the stern-looking housekeeper had lost weight and was not sleeping well, making her look even more terrifying. Well, maybe terrifying wasn't the right word, but Cora wouldn't want to go toe-to-toe with the woman for all the tea in China. She had a fearsome way about her, and Cora supposed that maybe Carson kept her in line for the most part.

Cora sighed and murmured to her granddaughter, "Why don't you go read to Nanny, my love? Granny and Mrs. Hughes need to go have a chat. I'll see you at teatime, and we can play a game then, all right?"

Sybbie nodded and scurried off to pick a book.

Cora rose to her feet and gestured to the door. "Where should we speak, Mrs. Hughes?" she inquired.

There was awkward silence, then the housekeeper said, "M'lady, I think we need somewhere the door locks and no one will try to find us."

Cora stared at her for a long moment, then said, "Mrs. Hughes, what on earth is going on?"

"I must speak to you urgently about a member of staff," Mrs. Hughes said, her voice wavering slightly. Cora immediately honed in on that and frowned. "There has been… an instance of impropriety that could cast shame upon the house, m'lady."

"Well, that sounds like Mr. Carson's area rather than mine –"

"M'lady," Mrs. Hughes said, wringing her hands, "the member of staff is me."

_Oh now… that's interesting_. Cora paused, then said, "Why don't we adjourn to the portrait room? The storage cupboards lock, and you can tell me about this… indiscretion of yours."

She didn't push the housekeeper until they were sequestered away, behind locked doors. "Mrs. Hughes, please tell me what's going on – is it Mr. Carson? Because no one will care if you've been intimate before marriage if that's what you're worried about –"

Mrs. Hughes was fiddling with her keys, with her fingernails, with anything so she didn't have to look up. "I want you to know," she began very quietly, "that working here at Downton has been the best job of my lifetime, m'lady, and I would never want to willingly hurt you or His Lordship or anyone else under this roof."

"So noted." Cora waited patiently, but the other woman took her time, and after a few minutes' wait, she reached out and gently stilled Mrs. Hughes's hands. Mrs. Hughes looked up in alarm. "Elsie," Cora said very gently, "please tell me what's wrong."

"There are… bits of my life that I am not proud of," Mrs. Hughes said very quietly. "I was young. I suppose I was pretty enough, or at least pretty enough for the Laird to… force beneath the stairs in a cupboard." Cora gasped aloud and the other woman fell silent. "I left with character when my Da died, and found out soon after that I was in the family way," she finally said. "I had a daughter. I left her with my cousin and his wife to be raised – they had a business, m'lady, good money, and they would do so much better for her than I would."

Cora watched her housekeeper. This, all of it, was tearing Mrs. Hughes apart. She could see the shame, the pain, the grief playing out on the older woman's face, and she felt so much… hatred and rage for any man who could hurt her so deeply that the scars still shone silvery new. "Mrs. Hughes, you did your best for that little girl in untenable circumstances," Cora murmured. "I believe you are very brave."

"I am not brave; I am a coward," Mrs. Hughes mumbled, swiping at her eyes, wiping away tears. "I did not tell anyone that I was… raped." The word was harsh; a harsh word for an even harsher action. "Not even my sister. Everyone believed I had a dalliance with someone, and I did no such thing. My Charlie was the only person before you to know the truth."

_Of course she had told Charles Carson. He would have been absolutely livid, driven to distraction – oh, yes, much like he had been over the last few weeks._ "I am… honored… that you feel me worthy of being told," Cora murmured. "I am sorry – truly –"

"I wouldn't be telling you this if it were not important," Mrs. Hughes said quietly. "My daughter works here. At Downton. It was a surprise –"

"Mrs. McCabe," Cora said, without thinking twice. She and Robert had had a conversation a few nights before about the strong resemblance between the housekeeper and the nanny – too strong to be merely cousins. But it had not been their place to speculate; now it all made sense. "Do not tell me I am wrong, Mrs. Hughes, because I know I am not."

"I cannot say you are wrong," Mrs. Hughes mumbled. "And my granddaughter has arrived just this afternoon – "

Cora's eyes widened. "Oh my word –"

"Anwen was Lady Campbell after her first marriage," Mrs. Hughes explained nervously. "Lady Frye is her daughter; my granddaughter. It's all so very complicated. I'm sorry."

"And you want to… what, exactly?" Cora asked. "What is done is done, and we can't change the facts now to suit our own ends, Mrs. Hughes."

Mrs. Hughes exhaled and closed her eyes. "You should dismiss me. I am no fit woman to chaperone the ladies' ward," she said. "And what's more, I should be dismissed without a reference, as I've lied to you and His Lordship –"

"How have you lied?" Cora said, confused.

"A lie of omission is still a lie, m'lady," Mrs. Hughes said, looking guiltier, sadder, and far more broken than Cora had ever seen her. "And now I've brought my shame to this house and it's none of your never you mind –"

Cora made a decision in that second. She had never really been close to the housekeeper, but she was not a stupid woman; she knew that her household sat squarely upon Mrs. Hughes's shoulders like the weight of the world, and she had been good to the Family for many a year. When she had offered to care for Mrs. Hughes when she'd possibly had cancer, it had not been an idle move, nor a false promise. And so must she not judge the poor woman now. It begged to wonder how she had kept the secret so long in the first place… seeing as how it absolutely tore Mrs. Hughes apart inside. There was no shame in what she had done; only shame that she had not come forward sooner.

"Mrs. Hughes," Cora said softly, "I cannot imagine what it must be like in your shoes right now. I cannot begin to imagine what you are going through. But you are a part of our family here at Downton, regardless of class structure and servants and masters and I would never turn you out into the cold. You have been too good to us, though you are not quite as single-minded in your devotion as Carson is – which is a good thing. Someone has to keep a level head."

Mrs. Hughes took a shuddering gasp of breath, dissolving into hysterical tears. "Oh, m'lady, what people will say –"

"You never mind what people will say," Cora said firmly. "You were raped. There was a child. That child was raised in love and married and had children of her own. You have done nothing wrong in my eyes – you gave your daughter a better life than she might have had, and she is here, now, and you can see her and touch her and it's all so real, isn't it?"

"It is all too much," Mrs. Hughes sobbed.

Cora wrapped her arms around her housekeeper and held her tight. "You are the strongest woman I've ever met, Mrs. Hughes," she confessed softly. "You carry the weight of the world upon your shoulders. Let me help you with your burden."

"You can't," Mrs. Hughes choked out, trying to stop crying. "M'lady – you cannot."

"We will invite Lady Frye's parents to Sunday luncheon after church, and you, Nanny McCabe, and Mr. Carson will join us," Cora said softly. "We will set this to rights for your sake, if nothing else… and I'll see that someone else takes over caring for Lady Frye –"

"No," Elsie said sharply. "She is my granddaughter. I will care for her. I will. Though it may be the most difficult thing I've had to do in this house, I will do it because you asked it of me, m'lady."

"I didn't know it at the time, but I was incredibly wrong to ask you to take that onto your shoulders as well," Cora said. "Mrs. Hughes, I am so sorry and I hope you will forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive you for, m'lady," Mrs. Hughes whispered.

"Yes, there is – you must forgive me for ever giving you the impression that I do not care about the welfare of my staff. You must forgive me for giving you the impression that I would dismiss you without references for something that happened to you in violence and pain forty years ago. Mrs. Hughes, I am sorry – so very sorry – that this has happened to you, but it has shaped you and made you the woman that you are. The woman that I would like to consider my friend."

"M'lady, I would not dare presume to be so familiar –"

"Stop," Cora said firmly, hugging Mrs. Hughes closer. "Stop thinking about propriety and all the rigamarole, Mrs. Hughes. You have been my ally in this house for as long as you have been here, whether you realize it or not. And I owe you a great debt for it. It's time to pay the piper: your past is here and it has come to stay upstairs, and you have told me the truth. The last thing I want to do is punish you more for something that is beyond your control."

"But His Lordship –"

"My husband will know what I tell him, which is that you have a daughter and two grandchildren," Cora said. "There will be no talk of indiscretion, because you were not indiscrete. In fact, you have been the very model of discretion these long years, haven't you?" There was a long pause where Mrs. Hughes swiped at her face with her handkerchief and Cora attempted to remain dignified. "Oh, Mrs. Hughes, I'm sorry. This kind of thing shouldn't happen to anyone; let alone you."

"My feelings on the matter aren't clear, m'lady," Mrs. Hughes sniffled. "I don't know if I want to make their lives more difficult."

"They are your family – what else is family for, if not making things more difficult?" Cora teased gently. "Carson cares about you very much," she added.

"I should hope so, or our marriage is doomed from the start," Mrs. Hughes scoffed.

"I just meant that he cares and he will try to make things better for you –"

"M'lady," Mrs. Hughes sighed. "I know you mean well… but I don't know that you should go to the trouble of setting up a luncheon when Mr. Carson and I should be the ones serving it, if anyone."

"Mrs. Hughes, these people are your family –"

"Maybe so, but what right do I have to cause them anymore pain and suffering? And that's all that dredging up the past will do, m'lady."

"Don't be ridiculous," Cora said firmly. "This is not your fault. None of this is your fault. But it's time you realized that, Mrs. Hughes. It's far past time for you to understand that."

"And what good would come of it? Dicky and Emma raised her – not me!"

The way that was phrased made Cora pause. "Are you saying Anwen was never formally adopted by your cousin?" When Mrs. Hughes buried her face in her handkerchief again, Cora said, "It's important, Mrs. Hughes. Did they –"

"No," Elsie whispered. "They were her guardians and I was still her mum. I could have come and taken her at any time. But I was scared – I wanted to… god, I wanted to."

Cora stilled Mrs. Hughes's shaking hands. "Then do your best for her now," she said very softly. "Please."

Mrs. Hughes hesitated, then nodded.

* * *

"Why on earth are we sharing Sunday luncheon with a wine trader and his wife?" Robert grumbled in annoyance. "Surely we shan't be discussing the weather – and Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes in attendance at the table? Cora, have you gone mad?"

"No," Cora said firmly. "I have not gone mad; I have not taken leave of my senses. I'm merely trying to right a wrong in the world."

She was trying to do her best for the poor, broken woman downstairs. And for the lovely nanny upstairs. She had been separated from Sybil long enough now that she began to think she might understand the depths of despair that Mrs. Hughes had felt for so many years… but it wasn't likely. And so, she would do her best by the housekeeper.

END PART NINE


	10. Chapter 10

Ten:  
The Many Shades of Grey

Elsie was silent at dinner and did not come to his pantry afterward. Charles found himself hovering outside her parlor, but he did not go in. He did not dare disturb her, not now, not after…

He had finished locking up and was about to go upstairs for the night when he ran into Her Ladyship coming into the downstairs. "M'lady…"

Lady Grantham tightened the shawl around her shoulders – he noted that she was in a (for the upstairs family) very sensible dressing gown beneath the shawl – and said, "Mr. Carson, you and I need to have a little chat."

"M'lady?" he questioned quietly.

"Maybe you can make a pot of tea and we can talk," she said.

"Yes, m'lady, of course – does His Lordship know that you're down here?" he asked, concerned.

A smile twitched at Lady Grantham's lips. "Who do you think sent me?" she teased with no small amount of mirth in her tone. "I dare say that you've lost your touch, Charles."

He frowned, then bowed a little, gesturing that she should follow him into the kitchen. The oven was still hot to the touch – it was never allowed to go out, that fire – so it only took a bare scant few minutes to get a kettle of water on. "M'lady, if this is to do with –"

"It's to do with many things, Mr. Carson… many things of a delicate nature," Her Ladyship said, "and that is why I waited until you were the only one left awake."

"Mrs. Hughes –"

"Mrs. Hughes has been in your apartments since dinner," Her Ladyship said softly. "We've had much to discuss."

He froze then, his heart beating a panicked tattoo in his chest. "Please tell me you are not sending her away," Charles breathed, feeling light headed, dizzy, scared to death.

"Absolutely not!" Her Ladyship said with more force than was absolutely necessary.

"Oh, thank god for that," he exhaled weakly.

"However… she has asked me to speak to you on her behalf," Her Ladyship said, "because you are less likely to fight me than you are to fight her."

"I don't want to fight her –"

Her Ladyship held up a hand. "Brew the tea, Carson," she ordered firmly. "And then we will talk. His Lordship and I have seen to many details on Mrs. Hughes's behalf tonight; it is no trouble at all to soothe your ruffled feathers."

"My _feathers_ are not _ruffled_," he huffed indignantly, then added a hasty, "m'lady."

Once the tea was made and he had secured a few biscuits to lay out with the tea, he sat down at the table with Her Ladyship. She took her steaming mug (for Charles was loathe to bring out the good china at this hour and face Mrs. Patmore's wrath in the morning) in hand and took a sip. "Mr. Carson, I know you love Mrs. Hughes greatly," she said softly. "And that is why I am here. She fears that you will not want to continue on with the wedding with all that has happened."

"I do not understand, m'lady, why you are to be her ambassador in this matter –"

"Lady Frye is her granddaughter," Her Ladyship said, cutting straight to the point. "Which makes Lord Campbell her grandson. And as we all well know, your precious rules of propriety would keep her from ever coming into contact with them, as she is well below their station."

His jaw dropped. "That would make Nanny McCabe –"

"The wife of Sir Anthony McCabe, yes," Her Ladyship said very quietly. "Is it any wonder the woman ran away and went into service with the things we've heard about that man?"

"He is a cad – a disrespectful man," he huffed. "What he has done to his wife –"

Her Ladyship gently laid her hand on his forearm. "Mr. Carson," she said softly, "it is not our place to judge him. Or her. But it is our place to bring her out from belowstairs so she might see her children again. Don't you think? Especially since we're all to go to London for Lord Campbell's wedding."

He paused. "M'lady…"

"We have invited Mr. and Mrs. Hughes for luncheon on Sunday, after church," she said. "They have already accepted the invitation and are glad to see Lady Frye." There was a quiet pause. "Seeing as how they are your fiancee's family, I have taken the liberty of asking Mr. Barrow to serve and you and Mrs. Hughes will, of course, take luncheon with the Family."

"M'lady, that is not appropria-"

"No, it is not," she agreed. "But this is a new world, Carson, and the world does not play by our rules, does it?"

"No doubt, m'lady," he grumbled softly. "I will… support Mrs. Hughes in this folly, but I will not be pleased with it."

"I am not asking you to be pleased," Her Ladyship said firmly. "Just that it happens at all."

He nodded and frowned. "I would not like to hurt Elsie," he admitted. "Not ever. Not after all this."

"You won't," Lady Grantham assured him.

* * *

He met her in the Grey Suite Saturday evening; she had managed to avoid him all day, things needing done and hurts too fresh to mend. Charles came into the room with some of his things from his room, and he barely took notice of her putting away some of her things until she spoke very softly. "Charles, I know… that tomorrow is going to be… upsetting," she murmured.

He jumped, the door to the wardrobe clattering shut with a solid slamming noise. "God, Elsie, don't –"

She bit her lip, smiling a little at the thought that she still might have the same stealthy reflexes of her youth. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," she said softly. "I was only putting away some of my things."

"I'm doing the same," he agreed. "It seems wasteful to do it the day we are wed, especially since we're to pack for London after the luncheon celebration."

"Charles," she said, "we need to –"

"Talk? Yes, let's talk," he muttered. "Let's talk about how humiliating and degrading it will be to the Crawley family to have two of their _servants_ sitting at the table with them tomorrow."

Elsie swallowed hard, reflexively. "It won't be like that," she said very softly. "It won't be. Her Ladyship won't allow it."

"His Lordship –"

"His Lordship knows," she said, perhaps a little too sharply. "He knows my shame and he still made the offer to bring them here and allow us to sit at the table after church service like we are important members of his household, Charles. This is not a _game_, contrary to what you may believe. This is the only chance I will ever have to make things right again – and so what if I am nothing more than a housekeeper? I am still Elisabeth Hughes, and I have given more than I ever thought it was possible to give in service. I gave up my only child, my grandchildren… and I will not lose you, as well. I _refuse_, Charles Carson. I _refuse_ to fail in this, now."

His shoulders slumped in something approximating defeat. "My god, Elsie, how could you be so stupid as to think you would ever lose me?" Charles asked. "Have I not stood at your side through all of this… mess? Have I not dried your tears and held you in the night when you needed comfort? I just… I object to tainting the house with –"

"I know," she whispered. "I know, it seems a fool's errand – but Lady Grantham has been insistent. I'm terrified, Charles. I'm afraid I will lose everything now. Including you. Especially you." She stepped around the bed and gently laid her hand on his shoulder. "But I had to tell the truth and accept the consequences."

He turned and drew her close to him, holding her tightly in his grasp. She did not feel fear like she might once have done – no, she felt such ease, such comfort, now. The difference was that she loved him, her Charlie, whereas other men who might have touched her that way… she had not, did not, could not, would not.

He kissed her very gently upon the lips, then released her. "I should be getting back – if Thomas is to serve luncheon tomorrow, I'd best have things prepared ahead of time…"

"It's already been done," Elsie said softly, digging her fingertips into his forearm. "You said so earlier, remember? At dinner."

"Blast," he muttered, caught out in the white lie.

"If you don't want to be here with me, just say so," she whispered. "Don't lie about it."

"I want to be here, you daft woman," he hissed. "Therein lies the problem!" When she looked at him, clearly baffled, frustration rising within her, he added, "For land's sake, Elsie, it's not proper. Everything else can be falling down around my ears, but now I will bend to propriety for your sake, if no other reason presents itself."

She bit back an angry, semi-hysterical laugh. "You weren't saying that a few days ago when your tongue was between my legs, Charles Carson!" Her tone was far more accusing than it was meant to be. "I am an old woman, Charlie – no one cares about my virtue anymore. Her Ladyship even went so far as to suggest that the 'indiscretion' I was going to speak to her about included you! God help me, I wish it had included you! I wish that you had been the one who had fathered my girl, but if wishes were horses, Charlie – if wishes were horses…"

"I would not have forced you in a cupboard," he said stiffly, angrily.

"No," she agreed. "But you would have loved me, and you would have loved her…"

The anger in his stance suddenly dissipated, and he sat down on the bed, his shoulders slumping. "I do love her," he muttered, "as much as it pains me to admit it. I love your Anwen because she is a part of you, Elsie Hughes. And I would have loved to have been her father…"

She struggled to get up onto the bed and sit beside him, but once she had, she held his hand and whispered, "I've loved you from the day you gave me that silly look that means there's something desperately wrong but it's so scandalizing and titillating that someone must see it."

"The maid and the footman behind the root shed," he said with a small smile.

She nodded and smiled. "And you allowed me to be the one to break it up and take credit for finding them," she reminded him gently.

"They had to make you housekeeper after that display," he teased gently, tracing the lines on the inside of her palm with his fingertips. "I love you, Elsie Hughes."

"And I you, Charles Carson," she whispered. After a few minutes, she murmured, "Stay with me tonight, please? I cannot sleep without you anymore."

It barely took a moment for him to acquiesce to her wishes. A moment and a deep, sweet kiss that tasted of love, desire… of _him_.

* * *

The final reading of the banns was simple, plain, heard clearly through the church, and they waited for any protest against them. Elsie knew her cousin and his wife were in the congregation; she would know Emma's fashion sense anywhere. The woman was always trying the latest and greatest thing she could throw her husband's money at. When no protest was made, Elsie slipped her hand into the gentle confines of Charles's hand, smiling a little as his fingers curled reflexively around hers.

She did not listen to the sermon.

All she could do was _feel_.

* * *

"What do you mean I'm needed downstairs?" Anwen said. She was confused; Anna wasn't making any sense at all. Why would she be needed downstairs? Everyone had just gotten back from church, hadn't they? _Oh god_. _**God**_. She was getting the sack. What other reason could there possibly be?

"Just… trust me," Anna said softly. "Change your dress and go downstairs. Mr. Bates and I will watch the children. Her Ladyship has already asked us to – please, Nanny McCabe. We'll all get in trouble if you don't do it."

Anwen nodded stiffly and went into her tiny room. Change her dress? She barely had clothes to her name! The last nice dress that she owned was from 1914, and it was hardly – but what choice did she have? God, she had no choice. She slipped into the maroon day dress with its purple and yellow embroidered flowers and remembered such better times… Times that had not seen her so poorly or so frightened that she would be turned out on her ear again to find purchase on the streets. Times that had not seen her hiding from the man who would be determined to kill her.

Times when she had been oblivious to her humble birth. Times where champagne had flowed and she had been the belle of society –

But those times were long gone, and all she had left of them were her memories and a lingering sense of bitterness.

She hesitated for a moment before she decided to leave her hair such as it was; there was no use in changing it if she was getting the sack. She nodded to Anna and gave each of the children a kiss and a murmured, "Behave for Mr. and Mrs. Bates," before she went downstairs. She knew she wasn't meant to show her young charges affection of that type, but the children were very affectionate, and she didn't mind returning their kisses and hugs in kind.

She came down the back stairs to the servants' hall, and Mrs. Patmore gaped at her. "Blimey," she said, "you'd better get upstairs and into the sitting room, Nanny McCabe – why didn't Anna tell you where to go? Blasted girl – get on with you!"

Anwen's confusion grew and she took the steps up into the Great Hall quickly, to be met by Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes. "Where on earth have you been?" Aunt Elsie asked, her brow furrowing. "We've been waiting – everyone has been waiting!"

"I didn't – what's going on?" Anwen stammered.

"What's going on is we're having luncheon," Mr. Carson said. She noticed then that he and Aunt Elsie were still dressed in their Sunday best clothes, and that Aunt Elsie was twisting her engagement ring around her finger again and again as if she were nervous.

But what did she have to be nervous about?

Anwen nodded and followed them into the sitting room. "Mr. Carson, Mrs. Hughes, welcome," Lord Grantham greeted heartily. "And Lady McCabe –"

Upon that greeting, Anwen felt panic close its icy fist around her heart; she saw black spots in her vision, couldn't breathe, couldn't think – _how could he possibly __**know**__?_ – and then, mercifully, the floor rose to meet her. _Quite convenient, that_.

END PART TEN


	11. Chapter 11

Eleven:  
Family Ties

"Well," Lady Mary commented dryly, offering another cup of tea to Lady Frye, "that was all very shocking and dramatic." She was referring, of course, to the nanny fainting dead away and Mr. Carson having to shore her up and carry her to the settee.

A muscle in Elisabeth Frye's cheek twitched, and she glanced over at her grandparents with what she hoped was a confused, helpless look. Surely they would do something –

But Grandda's face remained nothing but an indifferent mask. Granny, for her part, stood up and excused herself from the room. How could they? How could they treat her Mama like this, now, after all of this time? It was shocking in and of itself!

And then suddenly… suddenly, she knew the hushed words her mother had whispered to her the night that she disappeared, leaving them alone with Grandda and Granny had been the truth. She had denied it for so long, held onto the façade that they were her grandparents…

Elisabeth set aside her teacup and stood up to face her Grandda now. "Well," she said quietly, coldly, "I certainly hope you're happy now. This is not my house, or I would tell you both to leave. And my brother's wedding is not my wedding, else I'd say you were uninvited."

"How dare you speak to me in that tone?" Grandda said, his face red with anger. "How dare you accuse me of –"

The housekeeper was between them in a heartbeat, standing toe to toe with her Grandda. "If you dare raise your hand to her – if I find out that you ever did to Elisabeth what you did to my Anwen – I will…"

"Oh, since when do you care?" he hissed.

"I have always cared," Mrs. Hughes said in a voice so soft, so very cold that Elisabeth shivered. "Just because I could not provide for my daughter does not mean I did not care – I left her with you, didn't I? And how did you repay me that small kindness? You behaved no better than the man who fathered her! You chased her into the cold when she came to you for help! You took her children and did god only knows what to them – and now you dare to stand there and accuse me of cowardice and not caring?"

Mr. Carson was not quick enough to stop Mrs. Hughes, he did not grab her hand and hold her back until after she had struck Grandda. But by then, the damage was done.

He lunged around them and grabbed Elisabeth by the arm tightly. "You uppity little bitch," he hissed, dragging her with him toward the door. "What lies have you been telling people this time?"

Gerald, god love him, blocked the doorway. "You will remove your hands from my wife, or I will remove them for you," he growled.

Elisabeth wrenched her arm from Grandda's grasp and hissed, "Do not ever – _ever_ – think you have the right or the privilege to touch me again." She pulled away from him and all but ran back to her mother, who was finally beginning to come round under Lady Grantham's careful ministrations. "Mama," she breathed. "Oh, mama…"

"Oh, there is so much drama," Lady Edith breathed, almost horrified. But the look on Lady Mary's face was absolute glee, as if she had received the best present ever gifted! How different it must feel to be from a happy home, then, Elisabeth wondered.

Her mother came round fully and merely stared, mute, at Elisabeth. "Mama, I have been looking for you – everywhere. Do you know how many years I've been looking?" Elisabeth whispered.

"If you couldn't find me, neither could he," Anwen said very quietly.

Mrs. Hughes had a face like thunder; after some of the things Elisabeth had told her in confidence – why she did not allow anyone to touch the back of her neck, why she shied away when touched at all – was it any wonder? The woman had been concerned, and Elisabeth had only been too willing to dismiss her fears and assure her of her ability to handle the world. But it seemed that the opposite effect had been reached.

The woman shook off Mr. Carson and stalked Grandda until he was backed into a corner. She had the advantage of knowledge of the layout, and she used it – much to Elisabeth's delight. Her words were dark, angry, filled with a venom that would have curdled the blood of any normal man; but this was Grandda – he would not flinch.

"There was a time when I could have pitied you," Mrs. Hughes said. "I could have pitied you and brushed it under the table – but I will not. Not now. Not after the things you've done to my daughter and my granddaughter. God only knows what you've taught my grandson, but if he's anything like _you_… if he is anything like you are, Richard Hughes, _no more my blood will he be_. You are not my blood. You are a _**monster**_. God will have no mercy on your soul and even the Devil will cast you back. So take your _wife_," the word wife was said with such sarcasm and blind hatred that even Lord Grantham flinches, "and go back to your perfect little piece of the empire, Dicky. And if you ever – _**EVER**_ – dare come near my family again, you should know that I would gladly see myself hanged by the neck and dancing round the fires of _**HELL**_ than let you have your way again."

Grandda's face was contorted with anger and he made to say something, but Mrs. Hughes – god love her – spat in his face instead. "Get him out of here," Lord Grantham shouted. Mr. Barrow immediately grabbed Grandda by the back of his neck and overpowered him.

Barrow smiled a very cruel smile and said, "I doubt we'll ever see you at the Abbey again, Mr. Hughes. So might I take the moment to tell you in person that Mr. Carson will be terminating our account with your business? Not to mention the other fine houses nearby, I'm sure, will be awfully glad to follow suit." He forced Grandda into a bent position and said very firmly, "No one crosses our Mrs. Hughes, you know."

Elisabeth stood up, shaking, and said, "Mr. Barrow, do not break the poor man." She took a deep breath, then added, "After all, he will soon be forced to do it on his own when his business fails and all he has left is the farm." She felt bold, vindictive, though her words held a shred of kindness; the man deserved to be taken down a few pegs – more than a few – but she would not be the one to condemn him, lest her own soul be damned in the process.

She turned back to her mother and gently smoothed her hair and gave her a kiss. "I have missed you, Mama," Elisabeth whispered. "So much more than I can say – and I am so sorry."

Anwen accepted her daughter's embrace and held her close, weeping. Elisabeth wept, too, but she had a feeling it was more to do with the bairn than actual relief. It was an odd notion, but one she did not dispel completely. But it felt so good to have her mother's arms around her again; she did not smell the same as she had back then – of rosewater and sandalwood – but it was the same curve of neck and the same warmth that Elisabeth had known since she was a babe in arms.

Mr. Carson spoke up and said, "Now that the commotion is over, My Lord, maybe we should eat."

Lady Grantham said, "I was hoping that we could behave like civilized adults today, but clearly…"

"Cora, where has Mrs. Hughes gotten herself off to?" Lord Grantham said, concerned.

* * *

He found her in her parlor, curled up in a tiny ball on the settee. The sounds of anguish, of fury, of pain, echoed in his ears as he watched the love of his life cry once more. And then Charles spurred himself into action, gently soothing her with words and touches. He loved her more dearly than he could ever explain to anyone, and seeing her like this…

When her tears finally ceased, he just held her.

"He touched her," Elsie whispered. "As a man would touch a woman. From the time she was very young till she married Lord Campbell. She told me when I was helping her get ready for the wedding that morning; my poor baby was terrified that her husband would find out that she wasn't pure and cast her back to her Da. And nothing could possibly have been worse for her. I didn't want to believe her. I didn't want to think I'd done her so much wrong by leaving her with them. I was stupid and young and I let her down over and over again…"

There was a rustling from the doorway, and Charles looked up to see Lady Frye standing there. "M'Lady," he said quietly, "we were just –"

The young woman smiled sadly and said, "I was hoping to speak to Mrs… to my grandmother, Mr. Carson."

"You don't want to speak to me," Elsie said very quietly. "I've done nothing but bring you pain and misery –"

"But you haven't," Lady Frye said softly, closing the door behind her as she stepped into the parlor. "I've never had the chance to come to Downton before now," she said. "Grandda always kept the money hidden and I could not get at it to buy a train ticket." She sat down primly on one of the guest chairs. "What I'm trying to say is… I knew. About you. Mama told me the night she left. She told me if ever I needed a safe place to go, I was to get on a train to Downton in Yorkshire, to go to the Abbey and invoke the name of Elsie Hughes – that you were to be there for always, for keeps, and that you would let no harm come to me, because you are my grandmother."

"What?" Elsie whispered.

"She wanted me to know there was a safe place," Lady Frye murmured. "And it is – this is a safe place, and I would be honored to bring my bairn here to see you and Mr. Carson." She paused. "My grandparents."

Charles felt Elsie stiffen in his arms, then relax a bit when she realized that there was no malice in the girl's statement, only love and truth. "M'lady Frye, we would be honored to receive you and your family," he said.

"Does this mean I am invited to your wedding, then?" Elisabeth asked excitedly. "Oh, please say yes – please?"

"Of course you're invited," Elsie murmured. "Of course you are, but… you're the daughter of an Earl and the wife of a Knight of the Realm and I am nothing."

"You are my grandmother – you are not nothing," Elisabeth said, her tone very firm. She and Charles shared an exasperated look; this was not going well.

Elsie sighed and closed her eyes; Charles held her tighter. "Lady Frye," he said gently, "I don't think this is helping anything –"

"I need some air," Elsie announced, wrenching her way out of his arms. "I'll be back by the gong," she promised. "Just… let me go. Please."

He watched, helplessly, as she all but ran away from them all.

* * *

Elsie stood on the edge of the lake, picking up stones. She could fit five large ones in each pocket, plus some smaller field rubble. She did not weigh as much as all that; surely ten stones would be enough.

Everything was wrong now. Everything was so wrong. So very, very wrong.

But she could not make herself take the final step into the lake. She could not; how could she?

She wanted to. She wanted to jump in and let her misery go for the final time. She wanted to let the tepid water close over her head and erase everything…

But she could not.

Did not.

Reminded of her days on the farm, of the hard work, the beatings if she dared not work hard enough, the spitting curse against her from her father, branding her an ungrateful bastard – and was she, at that? She did not know, rightfully – she took each stone out of her pocket, throwing it as far as she could, watching with dark satisfaction as they plopped into the lake. Her hopes, her dreams, her sacrifices…

The final stone left her hands, sailing farther than the others.

Her past.

Charles was her future, and he was waiting for her at the house.

What next? Who knew? Tomorrow, she would marry him, and the next day, they would travel to London for the wedding of her grandson… a boy she could not claim in public as hers.

And then what?

_Then what_?

She had no earthly idea.

END PART ELEVEN


	12. Chapter 12

Twelve:  
All Our Earthly Hopes

"Oh, Mrs. Hughes," Anna whispered, "Mr. Carson isn't going to know what to do with you! You look so lovely –"

Elsie took a deep breath. Anna and Baxter had been fawning all over her for almost an hour, fixing her hair and doing her makeup. To be honest, she didn't see what all the bloody fuss was; her nerves were shot already, waiting to find out if Charles would cut and run after her hysterics the day before. "Well, I suppose I should take a look at myself, then," she said very quietly. "Though I don't know why everyone has gone to such trouble just for me –"

Baxter smiled and handed Elsie a small hand mirror. "Just hush your mouth and look at yourself," she said kindly.

Elsie rolled her eyes and huffed a little before she did as she was told. "Oh," she breathed, "oh my." The girls had done wonders – her hair was done up with interesting curls and twists and gentle plaits, her short white veil pinned to the back of the chignon. Her makeup was stunning – they had applied black mascara, a hint of pink blush, and her lips were the darkest shade of brick red, a look that was deliciously fashionable and incredibly flattering to Elsie's pale coloring, if she did say so herself.

The dress itself, she had gone out on a limb with Lady Grantham over – it was a soft, pale dove grey silk, cut in a very fashionable way with a drop waist and long sleeves. But it wasn't a traditional dropped waist; the waist was twisted and came up to rest on Elsie's hip, offering a spray of overskirt on one side. The overall effect was beyond stunning, and Elsie almost began to cry. No, she couldn't cry – her mascara would run and then where would they be?

"Mr. Carson is a very lucky man," Anna said with a small smile. "He won't know what to do when you come up the aisle."

Elsie smiled a little. "Thank you…"

The door opened and Lady Mary breezed in with Her Ladyship on her heels. "We are about to leave for the church," Her Ladyship said with a smile. "Oh! Mrs. Hughes, I told you that was the dress, and I was right – you look absolutely stunning!"

"I… just hope that Charles is there to see it," Elsie admitted. It was her worst nightmare, the idea that she would be jilted at the altar by the only man she'd ever actually loved.

"Why on earth wouldn't he be there?" Lady Mary said. "Mrs. Hughes, Carson has loved you for as long as you've been at Downton – he is already at the church with Papa, probably pacing and going over next week's wine lists to stay calm. There is no reason to believe otherwise."

"My behavior yesterday was reprehensible –"

"Your behavior yesterday was completely justified," Her Ladyship snapped. "Your cousin is an odious man and you have taken back what is yours." The angriness suddenly dissipated, and she smiled. "Now, have you remembered everything? Old, new, borrowed, blue, sixpence in your shoe?"

"Aye, m'lady," Elsie murmured.

"Good – and there are two surprises waiting for you at the church. I hope you don't mind," Her Ladyship said as she passed over Elsie's bouquet of summer lilies.

"No, m'lady, I could not accept any more –"

"It's not for you to accept," Lady Grantham said in a firm tone. "Just for you to enjoy."

Elsie decided it was probably better to stop protesting. "Thank you, m'lady."

"Now, come on – it's time to go," the Countess said firmly.

It had been a long time since Elsie had driven in the car, let alone had been driven into the village by anyone but Tom Branson. It seemed odd, wrong somehow, for a mere servant to be riding into the village with her employers. It just wasn't done… yet, here she was.

Anna was her matron of honor, the only woman who would stand with her, and Charles had chosen John Bates to stand by him. Miss Sybbie and Marigold were to be the flower girls and Master George the ring bearer. It was meant to be small, intimate…

She didn't expect to see people standing outside the church because it was so full. She didn't expect any of it. It seemed like an overwhelming blur, but the Crawley ladies and Baxter went in to find their seats, and Anna went to confer very quickly with Anwen about the timing of the flower girls, leaving Elsie to fidget. She was saved by Lord Grantham, who gently took her hand and guided her from the motor car. "Mrs. Hughes, if you were not engaged to be married, I would sweep you off your feet," he teased gently. "Carson has been fretting for the last hour, worrying that you wouldn't arrive at all."

She blushed and exhaled. "I've been worried that he would not be here, waiting," she admitted.

"Well, now that that's over," Lord Grantham said with a smile, "you are both here. And now we will lead you up the aisle."

"You don't have to, m'lord –"

"Nonsense," Lord Grantham said with a smile. "It's a privilege, Mrs. Hughes."

The little ones headed up the aisle, then Anna, and His Lordship offered his arm. She took it, smiled, and said, "This is slightly more enjoyable than getting a tooth pulled, m'lord, but I'll be glad when it's done." The music changed and she took a deep breath, beginning her walk down the aisle.

The look on Charles's face when he saw her made everything else entirely worthwhile. The ceremony was a blur until the very end when they shared a surprisingly delicate kiss. She smiled against his lips and murmured, "You're going to have lipstick all over you."

"Your lipstick," he replied. "I don't mind."

"Besotted old booby," she teased as they pulled apart, still holding hands tightly.

"I love you, Elsie Carson," he said as they walked back down the aisle to cheers and clapping. "And whose idea was that dress? I should like to kiss them – I've never seen you so…"

"I chose the color and Her Ladyship chose the rest," Elsie said gently. "So please don't go kissing her and getting in trouble."

He leaned in and gave her another relatively chaste kiss, a smile on his lips. "Then you get all the credit," he said softly. They stepped outside and were bundled into the car quickly to be taken back to the Abbey to take photographs, then change into something suitable for the wedding breakfast. He couldn't stop smiling, her normally stony-faced butler, and she found that neither could she, if she was honest with herself!

"My wife," he said softly, with much reverence.

"My husband," she echoed in a less reverent tone. "Now I can get away with ordering you to pick up your socks instead of sounding like an impertinent housemaid."

He frowned at her in a moment. "I – I – Mrs. Hughes, are you telling me that you're the one that sneaks into my room and tidies?"

"Aye, and I mend your unmentionables and darn your socks, so don't give me that look, Charles," she teased gently. "I've loved you a long time, and it makes your life easier if I do that for you."

His smile returned, full force, and he kissed her – far less properly than he had in the church. "Have I mentioned that I love you?"

"Maybe, but I could always use a reminder," Elsie murmured, threading her fingers with his and smiling.

* * *

"Oh, I hope they come down soon," Mrs. Patmore said. "I do think Mr. Carson will have the vapors if we're abovestairs too awfully long."

"Nonsense," Branson said with a smile. "This is a celebration, Mrs. Patmore, and you've all done very well to prepare it and get everything ready. I think I speak for everyone when I say that you're very welcome. All of the staff is very welcome."

"Yes, they are," Lady Grantham agreed. "Isn't that right, Mama?"

The Dowager scowled at her. "Your progressive values will sell you short in the end, Cora, but yes… everyone is welcome."

Anwen caught the look of disapproval that was thrown her way from the Dowager and held herself in check. The woman would not be so disapproving, would she, if she knew the truth? Anwen adjusted her gentle hold on Marigold, making sure the little girl was comfortable. "You did well, Miss Marigold," she murmured. "Mrs. Carson is very proud of you – we all are." The normally reticent toddler smiled like the sun shone out of her, and Anwen gave her an affectionate kiss. "Now, love, why don't we go see if Mrs. Patmore has a treat for you?"

They went to the buffet and took a small piece of toast with salmon and olive, which Marigold happily chewed upon. Lady Edith was talking to some of the people from the village, and caught Anwen's eye with a smile on her lips. Being a bastard herself, knowing what it could do to a person, knowing Edith's secret after only a few days, Anwen tried very hard to be loving and kind to Marigold – for she would need a support like that for all of her days.

Mr. and Mrs. Carson stepped through; he had changed into a morning suit and she into a dark grey day dress – simple and sensible, as they were. Anwen felt a stab of jealousy in her belly, knowing that they loved each other so very much. It put her in mind of her first marriage, which made her both jealous and frightfully sad.

Elisabeth came over and smiled, reaching up to soothe Marigold's unruly curls of hair. "Mama, Gerald and I would like it very much if you would consider coming back to Iverness with us," she said softly. "Please say that you will. You will be no trouble at all, and we can well hide you from my step-father –"

Anwen pursed her lips together into a thin line, echoing an unconscious gesture of her mother's. "I don't know that I can do that," she said in an equally soft tone. "Not now, at least."

"Well, you can't hide forever, can you?" Elisabeth shot back. "It almost seems ridiculous – you are a Lady and you behave as if you were not."

"I am not," Anwen said very quietly. "I am Anwen Rebecca Hughes, and that is all that I am, Lizzie. Everything else is just… frippery."

"Your grandchild is frippery? I am frippery?" Elisabeth challenged. "What, would you go to London to live with Gregory, then? Mama, this isn't fair of you –"

"I would stay here because I feel safe here," Anwen said. "Because Mrs. Hughes has championed me more in the last month than anyone has in the last ten years – and Mr. Carson…"

"Mrs. Carson," Elisabeth corrected.

"Don't make a fuss," Anwen scolded softly. "You'll upset Miss Marigold."

"Well, I am upset," Elisabeth countered. "And you cannot even call the woman your mother – why on earth would you stay?"

Anwen turned to look at her mother and the man she had married, and felt the petty jealously leave her like a flood. "I don't feel the need to justify my decision," she said, a hint of a smile on her lips.

"What decision is that, then?"

"Gregory, you tell Mama that she must –"

Anwen turned and saw her son for the first time since he was but a lad of 15, and her jaw dropped in shock. He was the living embodiment of his father; sturdy, well-built, handsome, but he had the same dark red hair as hers, and the smile on his lips was the same one that greeted her in the mirror in the morning as she affirmed her day. "Oh my god – what are you doing here?"

"Well, of course I was on the first train when Lizzie said you were here," Gregory said with a chuckle. "Hello, Poppet – who are you, now?"

"This is Miss Marigold," Anwen introduced. "She is the Crawleys' ward – I care for her. In the nursery. As the nanny."

"Considering I just saw a butler and a housekeeper be wed with as much pomp and circumstance as any Lord or Lady, I cannot possibly pass judgment about my Mama heading a nursery," Gregory teased. "But I am very glad to find you safe and sound, Mama. We have been very worried."

"Yes, and now you must make her come to Iverness," Elisabeth said firmly.

"I'm afraid my decision to stay is not based on you wanting to keep me safe," Anwen said. "I wish… quiet, peace… for myself, and I want to better know –"

"Your decision to stay is not in your hands and you know it," Gregory said, getting very close to her ear. He whispered, "No matter how tolerant the upper crust, there is no way they will allow a Lady to serve. Even to protect you, Mama. And what if I told you Sir Anthony has died in London, several weeks past? Would that affect your decision at all?"

"Has he?"

"I have the notices in my luggage," Gregory promised. "And whilst I am very much aware that I am getting married on Saturday, I thought it was far more important to bring you this news. And to be present at your godmother's wedding."

Anwen nodded and glanced away. "I will… reconsider," she said softly.

"Please do," her son replied. "And I will speak to Lord Grantham later about your continued appointment –"

"No," Anwen said. "Please do not. I will speak to His Lordship and Her Ladyship if and when it becomes necessary –"

Lady Edith came over and said, "Marigold, come with me, love – we must go congratulate Mr. and Mrs. Carson now." She held out her hands and the little girl all but fell into them, leaving the trio alone again.

Anwen hated being at odds with anyone, let alone her children.

* * *

"Your Lordship, thank you," Elsie said, smiling, "for everything. You did not have to –"

"No, but I wanted to," Lord Grantham said with an answering smile. "Carson, you could not have done better than marry Mrs. Hughes. She is quite a woman, your wife."

"Thank you, my Lord, but she is taken," Charles said pointedly.

"Ah, yes, well – I know we have taken control of your wedding and made life much more difficult these last few weeks," Lord Grantham said, "but we do, as a family, have one more gift for the two of you." He gestured for Lady Mary and Tom Branson to come toward them. They did, leading two smartly dressed ladies with them. "What is a wedding without your family, Mrs. Carson?"

Elsie looked at the women, then blinked, stunned. "Rebecca? My Becky?" she gasped, her hand leaping to her mouth. "But I thought you –"

"Nurse June here has to come with me and give me my medicine," Becky Tavish said with a small, sad smile. "But I am here to see my baby sister get wed. Did you think I wouldn't come through hell, high water, and all the rest just to see that?"

Elsie began to cry and threw herself into her sister's arms. "Oh, Becky, it's so good to see you," she whispered. "And so much better than before –"

"The medicine helps," Becky said very quietly. "But look at you! Quite the blushing bride –"

"Well, now I'm just weepy," Elsie accused, "and it's all your fault – how long are you staying?"

"We go home tomorrow," the nurse said kindly.

"We go to London tomorrow," Charles spoke up. "We will have to spend time together this evening."

"That will be easy," Lady Grantham said with a smile. "Mrs. Tavish and her nurse are staying in the Yellow room. It was very difficult to keep you two from finding out, you know."

Elsie released her hold on Becky and looked at her, hard. She looked so much older now; much older than 67 – her hair was stark white, her skin a mass of wrinkles and freckles and age spots… but she was still Becky. "I am so glad you could come – I am honored, Becky," she said, giving her sister a kiss. "Now, you should meet my husband. Becky, this is Charles. Charles… this is our Becky."

Charles took Becky's hand and gave it a kiss. "I am delighted you could come, Mrs. Tavish," he said. "And I intend to treat your sister very well for the rest of our lives together."

"I should bloody hope so," Becky said with a conspiratorial smile. "Now, you must send me letters since we are brother and sister – and tell me what Elsie here gets up to that she won't tell me."

"Oh! I see how it is – you just want to gang up on me," Elsie huffed, but there was a smile on her lips as she said it. And just as quickly as that, they were both locked in an embrace with Charles. "Charles!"

"I am happy that you are both happy," he said. "I was unsure, when I posed it to His Lordship, whether or not this would be a good idea… but now I am glad."

"I am so grateful," Elsie whispered, "that I am married to the sweetest man in all of Yorkshire –"

"Be careful, Mrs. Carson," Lady Mary teased, "or everyone will get the idea that Carson has gone soft."

"Becky, come with me," Elsie said softly, taking her sister's hand. "There's someone I want you to meet."

"But you should be –"

"The celebration is for us," Elsie pointed out gently, "and it will keep." She pulled Becky behind her, navigating the sea of people easily. "Do you remember our Anwen?"

Becky came to a dead halt. "Oh, Elsie – no –"

"Becky," Elsie said patiently, "she's not a bairn anymore."

"But she is a –"

"She is my daughter," Elsie said very softly. "I will have no one refer to her in those terms. She is only… she is only a bastard if no one claims her. I claim her. She is mine, Becky."

"But Elsie –"

"Please," Elsie said, "Becky, please trust me." She came to a stop by Anwen and Elisabeth, and said, "Are we to hide in the corner, then?"

Elisabeth smiled and threw her arms around Elsie with great enthusiasm. "You were so lovely, grandmama!" she exclaimed.

Elsie drew back, surprised. "What did you –"

"Well, I cannot call you anything but grandmama, can I?" Elisabeth asked. "And look who has come up from London – Gregory!"

Anwen gave Elsie a very small, sad look, and said, "I had no idea that they had planned this…"

"Nor had I any idea that Charles and His Lordship had arranged for my sister to be here," Elsie said. "Becky… this is my Anwen – and her children, Elisabeth and Gregory."

"We've met," Anwen said, standing away from them awkwardly.

Becky clutched Elsie's hand. "I tried to tell you," she said. "Dicky and Emma came to visit once. I was out of my head and thought your Anwen was my Betty – and I scared the girl."

"Scared me? You tried to crush me!" Anwen protested.

Elsie felt a rush of shame well up inside her again; she knew she had failed her daughter yet again, and it was nothing short of humiliating. "I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I didn't know – Anwen, I didn't know."

"How could you have?" Gregory reasoned gently. "Mama, why don't you and Lizzie go get something to eat, so I can speak to grandmother?"

"I'll go," Becky said in a quiet, resigned tone. "Lady Mary was telling me about the gardens." She released Elsie's hand and wandered away, back to the care of her nurse.

Elsie watched her, feeling desperately sad as she did. But Gregory had taken her hand and was smiling. "Now, imagine my shock when my sister calls me from Yorkshire and tells me that not only has she found Mama, she's found our true grandmother, as well – and she was about to get married to an upstanding gentleman…"

"He is not a gentleman," Elsie protested, blushing. "We are butler and housekeeper."

"Mr. Carson is a good man," Gregory said, "and he makes you happy."

"And we are humbled that you have come to our wedding when your own nuptials are so soon," Elsie murmured. "We will be heading to London with the Family tomorrow for your wedding."

"Well," Gregory said, smiling, "then, of course, you must come. And you must celebrate with Irina and myself at the family table."

"That will be very difficult when your wedding will be quite grand and we are not so much," she warned him gently.

"I don't care," he said. "You are my grandmother. I claim you, Elisabeth Carson, to be my mother's mother."

And for Elsie, those words were even sweeter than Charles's vows.

END PART TWELVE


	13. Chapter 13

Thirteen:  
Wedding Night

When they finally took their leave of the wedding supper, Elsie's eyelids were drooping and Charles had to help prop her up. She had a laugh at that; the wine hadn't gone to her head, but it had made her sleepy. Ironic, really, on the one night when she felt like she needed the extra fortification.

They made their way upstairs to their apartment, another bottle of wine and two glasses in hand, and crept into the foyer of the suite like mice. "I don't know why we're being quiet when it's ours," Elsie giggled.

"Something about the momentous nature of the occasion?" Charles countered with a grin.

"Oh please," she scoffed. "I've mended your unmentionables for years and I have seen you naked before," she reminded him.

"Yes, but now we are man and wife –"

"Charles, I think we've been secretly man and wife for twenty years," she teased gently. "We've already made love in this bed, and I am not afraid to shimmy down to my underthings and have a go now. Especially since Lady Mary chose these god awful underpinnings." Truth be told, she hated the brassiere and knickers that Lady Mary had chosen, and would have been far more comfortable in her corset, but the younger woman had insisted. And now, of course, Elsie had opened her big mouth and Charles was looking at her as if she were a woman possessed.

Which just made her lips twitch with amusement. She thought for a moment about being a proper lady, but decided that since they finally had a bloody door that locked, they should just bloody well get on with it already! So she began unbuttoning bits and bobs, and watched his reaction as pieces of her clothing disappeared one at a time until she was left in the offending undergarments, her suspenders, and her stockings. And he was loving every bit of it. She could tell by the way his eyes glittered in the lamplight. The way his fingers clenched, then released. The way he was beginning to sweat.

"Oh, come on, you old booby," Elsie sighed. "It isn't as if we haven't already done this bit a few dozen times."

"Yes, but… tonight is meant to be special –"

"It is special," she countered gently. "It is special because we belong to each other now in all the ways that matter. And I love you, Charles Carson. But if you don't get your trousers off in the next five minutes, you'll be sleeping on the sofa tonight."

"You are being very forward tonight –"

"Well, I've had quite the day," she shot back. "I married the love of my life, saw my mad sister for the first time in years, and my grandson… my grandson is a fine man." It was not so long ago she would not even have been able to have claimed knowledge of her progeny, and now…

She watched Charles undress, smiling when he finally reached his undershorts. "Oh, good, now we can get to the good bits," Elsie teased gently. "Pour us a glass, will you, love?"

He gave her an indignant look. "Elsie, this is one of the finest wines I've ever had the pleasure to drink and I will not just 'pour us a glass, love'."

"Well, if you won't, I shall," she shot back, finally getting around to taking off her suspender belt and stockings. She felt like playfully launching one or more of the stockings in his direction, but was afraid that would not so much be taken well.

He sighed, shaking his head as he poured them each a glass of wine. When he turned back around, he almost dropped both glasses – because Elsie had hurried up and gotten the rest of her kit off. Her knickers were dangling from her fingertips, and a coy smile was on her lips as he just stared at her.

"Oh, come on," she sighed, exasperated. "You don't have wedding night jitters after all of the… fornicating… we've done, do you?"

"Who are you and what have you done with my Elsie?"

She rolled her eyes and stifled a laugh. "I can put my dressing gown on if it makes you more comfortable," she said in what she hoped was a scathing tone.

"It would be a shame to cover up your lovely bits," he replied hastily, earning a dirty look for his implication that not all of her bits were lovely. "I didn't mean – damn and blast – I only meant…"

She came over and plucked a wine glass from his grasp. "Sofa, dear," she reminded him. "Don't dig your hole too deep." The wine was good, but not that good, and she needed some Dutch courage to keep up the act; the wine was gone in a few quick gulps. Truth was, she was the one who was nervous – she was putting everything out on display for him, and if he didn't accept, what good was she?

Elsie needn't have worried: he came over and took the empty glass from her, placing it on one of the small end tables. Then he kissed her; it was not a chaste kiss like they had shared in the church, but it was full of promise, of passion, of desire. They were both already keen with want, and she kissed him back as though her life depended on it… and mayhaps, it did.

His hands wandered over her skin, making her shiver and moan into the depths of his kisses. She loved this part, where they teased and tortured one another until they were begging for blessed relief. It had been both a blessed relief and a curse to know that her handsome butler was capable of feeling such intense passion… and for her, nonetheless! It did well to stroke her ego once in a while, knowing that she was wanted so badly, so very very much.

It took very little coaxing and encouragement to get him flustered, hot and bothered. That was absolutely the best part: they had held back so much over the years that everything was amplified a thousandfold in their eyes. She took a deep, shuddering breath as his lips moved down her body, finding an eager target in her breasts – he had brought her to climax more than once just by kissing and touching there, god help her. The very first time they had snuck away and done this, she had come undone like a ball of yarn at a kitten's paw.

"You are overdressed, Mr. Carson," she breathed, whimpering a little as his lips came closed over her nipple. One of his hands crept down over her body, coming to rest heavily between her legs, and she rubbed against his fingers without shame or intent. She gasped, she arched against the pressure of his fingers, she moaned and closed her eyes.

He might have replied, but she would not have heard it for the blood rushing in her ears, the wanton lust pushing her toward the edge of madness. How could something so beautiful be considered sinful? There was so much beauty between them, these soft touches, these begging caresses, this need given and fulfilled by love. How could anyone brand such love a sin?

It took a bit, encouraging him, coming unraveled at his hands, his lips, his tongue, before he felt the need to let go; he kicked off his undershorts and sent them flying god only knew where before returning his attention to her fully.

When he began to thrust into her, she grabbed his buttocks and pulled him deeper, feeling herself stretch to accommodate his length and girth. Then his hips were flush with hers and she kissed him deeply like a wanton siren, desperate and needy. They moved together, each knowing exactly what the other wanted, and her legs came up around his hips, driving him deeper, spurring him on.

She wanted to feel him, to feel everything – this was love, devotion, an unspoken need fulfilled by trusting one another enough not to take advantage of their joint vulnerabilities. But to anyone else, anyone looking in from the outside, they were just two old people rutting like deer in the parkland. To them, they were still that young housemaid and the under butler…

She whimpered and broke their kiss, whispering, "I'm so close…"

He recaptured her lips, eagerly kissing and touching her in a way that seemed indecent – though it was very, very decent, just the way a man should kiss his wife behind closed doors. She felt her bliss welling up inside her, insistent, hot, and full of grace; then she was shattering, taking him with her, pleasure and subtle pain washing over them both.

When next he could breathe, he spoke the words she longed to hear.

"God, Elsie, I_ love_ you."

* * *

They finished off the wine sitting before the fire, naked and blissfully glowing. He'd never seen his Elsie so beautiful, so relaxed. It was amazing what a wedding and a locked door could wrought between a couple.

He stroked her arm and murmured, "Tomorrow, we go away to London."

"Yes," she agreed very quietly. "I don't have anything suitable to wear for Gregory's wedding, though. If we're even invited at all. I wouldn't want to rain on his parade, being… you know… as he's the grandson of the Duke of Argyll."

"My love, you could wear a sack and still would be the most lovely woman there," Charles said softly. "You are a good woman, hard working and decent – everything that has happened in your life has made you harder, but you are still the beautiful young housemaid I fell in love with."

She leaned over and kissed him then, a sweet, gentle kiss fueled by wine and love. "Thank you," she whispered. "But I will still need a new frock."

"Then we will go shopping," he said. There was nothing he would deny his beautiful, broken Elsie Hughes. Nothing.

END PART THIRTEEN


	14. Chapter 14

Fourteen:  
Complications

The staff bandied about, finishing the loading of the motor cars and buggy for the trip to the train station. In the midst of everything, the morning post arrived; Daisy had a flip through it, then shouted, "Mrs. Carson, there's a letter for you – from a firm in Dunne in Scotland."

Elsie was ending her orders for the maids in her absence when Daisy shouted. She immediately dismissed the girls and took the letter. "Thank you, Daisy –"

"I suppose they haven't heard of you gettin' married yet, aye?" Daisy said with a small smile.

Elsie shook her head. "I suppose not," she agreed, opening the envelope in a hurry. They were due to leave for the station in fifteen minutes, and the organized chaos was only getting more chaotic. She skimmed the contents of the letter, then headed to the butler's pantry. "Charles, may I borrow your phone for a moment?" she inquired.

"Of course," he said, snapping shut a case. "I'll leave you to it while I supervise the last of the loading. Do you have everything you need?"

"Yes," she said with a soft smile. "Get on wi' ye, you daft man." She gave him a quick kiss as he left the room, shutting the door behind him. She picked up the hand set, then said, "Operator? This is Downton 1165; I would like to be connected with Dunne, Scotland – 3469, please." She waited. "Hello, is this Wallace and Henry Law Offices, please? Oh, good – this is Mrs. Elisabeth Carson from Downton. I've just received your letter about a matter of inheritance… I'm afraid the household is going away to Grantham House in London and it will be about two weeks before we return. Yes, of course, Mr. Wallace. Yes… if you wish to make a trip to London, I will make time to meet with you. I don't know who I'd be inheriting anything from – I've got no family in Dunne. Yes, well… all right. You will, of course, call to the servants' quarters at Grantham House. Yes. I am the housekeeper. Yes. I will see you tomorrow or the day after, then."

She replaced the hand set and sat back, taking a deep breath. Goodness knew what on earth someone was playing at, thinking she was going to inherit some bloody thing or another. Probably some hideous bauble from a friend of her mother's or something. Hardly worth going all the way to Downton – or even London – for.

Daisy stepped into the pantry and said, "Mrs. Carson, we're leaving now. The luggage is already gone."

Elsie nodded and smiled at the girl. "I'm coming," she said, tucking her letter into her pocket. "Is that a new hat, Daisy? It's lovely."

"Thank you, Mrs. Carson – I bought it for your wedding because it's grand," Daisy said with a wide grin.

Elsie took Daisy's arm and walked with her to the waiting group of servants.

* * *

The first night at Grantham House was, of course, overwhelmingly busy. It was actually unrestrained chaos, but Charles attempted to keep it in check as much as possible. It didn't help that Elsie was having a difficult time keeping up with her side of things and kept instructing one maid to do one thing and then another maid to do the same thing. He'd never seen her so distracted or worried; and why was she worrying?

"Daisy, when you take up the children's tea, please remember that Miss Sybbie doesn't like boiled egg," she was saying for the third time.

Daisy just stood there, looking at her like she was daft in the head. "I know, Mrs. Carson," she said. "We'll scramble hers." The young woman glanced over at Charles, a quizzical look on her face. This was something that she dealt with every day, not just on days that Mrs. Carson told her to worry about it.

Charles took this as his cue to move in. "Mrs. Carson?" he said. "May I speak with you?"

An unreadable expression settled onto her features, then she followed him into the pantry, slamming the door shut behind them. "I suppose you're about to tell me that I'm outstepping my boundaries –"

"No, I am merely going to ask if anything is the matter. You've not been yourself today."

She hesitated, biting her lower lip for just a moment before she released it and said, "There is nothing the matter."

"Does this have to do with the telephone call you made earlier?"

She scowled at him, then pulled a letter from her dress pocket. "Fine, you win," she muttered, pressing it into his hand. "I'll not fight with you over something so trivial as a letter from a bloody solicitor."

"I don't want to fight at all," he said, more than slightly bewildered. He looked over the letter briefly, then said, "Who do you know in Dunne? A maiden aunt, perhaps or –"

"I know no one in Dunne," Elsie said firmly. "I'm fairly certain they wrote to the wrong Elisabeth Hughes, but… I don't know. I don't know. It worries me."

"Well –"

"The solicitor will be here tomorrow, he thinks," she said quietly. "I'm just –"

"Go," Charles said firmly. "Go sit down, put your feet up, and take your mind off of things for a few minutes."

She opened her mouth to protest, but he gave her a quick kiss and sent her on her way. Honestly, she wasn't doing anyone any good in her distracted state, and the last thing they needed was someone being careless.

He looked over the letter again and frowned. Why did Dunne sound so familiar to him?

* * *

"Mrs. Carson? There's a man to see you," Daisy said with a smile on her lips from the doorway of the housekeeper's parlor. "Mrs. Patmore is making a pot of tea."

"Thank you, Daisy," Elsie murmured, getting up to greet Graeme Wallace. The solicitor was on the short side and rather plump, but he had a kind enough face and a smile on his lips. "I am Mrs. Carson," she greeted, offering him her hand. "I was Elisabeth Hughes until I was married a few days ago."

"You are certainly a difficult woman to find, Mrs. Carson," Wallace said with a smile. "It's taken us two years to go through all of the Elisabeth Hughes in Scotland –"

"I didn't realize it was such a popular name," Elsie muttered dryly, gesturing for him to sit down and make himself comfortable. "Now, to save you the trouble… I don't know anyone in Dunne."

"Let me ask you a few questions, then," Wallace said, not unkindly. "Are you Elisabeth Rosemarie Hughes, born 17 September, 1862, in Bute, Argyllshire?"

"Yes," she said softly. "How did –"

"Before we go any further, I have a letter you must read," he said, holding out an envelope he'd retrieved from his briefcase. "It will explain many things. I can excuse myself while you read it or –"

"No," she said, "please stay."

With nervous hands, she opened the envelope, still unsure exactly what was going on and how someone knew all of her particulars. It was peculiar, to say the very least. She took a deep breath and began to read.

_My darling Elisabeth,_

_Your mother told me that she called you Elsie, but I think that a letter of this nature would best be formal. I am honored, still, that Margaret named you after my mother, and I bless every day that passes that she did._

_My name is Henry Dinsmore, Marquess of Dunne, and I am your father. You may be skeptical of this declaration, dear Elisabeth, but please believe me when I say that you are the most important piece of my life. I have never married and I have no other children besides you; I loved Margaret Hughes far too much and far too deeply to have given in to social niceties and wed another. I am sorry that you must find out this way that John Hughes, the man you believed to be your father, was no such thing at all._

_Your mother and I met while she was employed as pastry cook at Dunnesmore Castle. Her pear and treacle tart was the most exquisite morsel I have ever tasted! I met her at once and we began a dance, Elisabeth. I knew that she was married, that we were perilously close to causing one another total destruction, but we were hopelessly, irrevocably in love. John Hughes, however, did find out, and he quit Dunnesmore without notice and dragged Margaret and young Becky with him. He took up farming and drinking as far away from Dunne as they could run. But your mother still wrote to me, told me of your arrival and of how beautiful you were, my daughter. And she loved you as much as I do now._

_I was preparing a room for you and Becky the night your mother died. She had written me, told me that she was bringing you both – that she would not, could not, allow another baby to be born in that house. I didn't know what I was doing, aside from attempting to be the charming fairy tale prince (too much status, I should think), but I awoke without the three (four?) of you, for you never made the journey. I received word that afternoon that Margaret had died. I could not endanger you or your sister more by taking you away from John Hughes without justifiable right, so I did not attempt to remove you from the farm. I have regretted that decision the rest of my life._

_I saw you at the funeral, and I spoke to you. You were very young, and I hardly think you would remember; but if you can, I was the man who so complimented your lovely doll. I picked that doll from a thousand of them, all because your mother wrote that you so wanted one for your birthday. I hoped that I had chosen well, and she was perfect in your arms. I wanted to take you away, Elisabeth, and protect you. But I could not._

_The next I heard of you, you had gone into Service. Hardly a career befitting the daughter of a Marquess, but seeing as how you were not really mine at all… I might be able to forgive you. You flitted from great house to great house, and I lost track of you. I assume you are still in Service now, but I'll be damned if I could find you easily._

_My point being that I love you, my daughter. I have always loved you, and even this deathbed confession should prove that I have cared. I will not see your face one last time, but I hope… I pray… that you look like my dear Margaret and less like myself. I hope that you are happy, my child. And I pray that you will forgive me my sins against you and your sister._

_I have no heir, only an heiress: Elisabeth Rosemarie Hughes. You are heiress of all, my dear. Mr. Wallace will inform you of all the details, but know this: I have always loved you, from the moment you were created. And I am sorry._

_Sincerely yours,  
your father,  
Henry Dinsmore, Marquess of Dunne_

Elsie stared at the solicitor in shock. "Oh… shit," she breathed. "No, no, no, no… NO!"

"Mrs. Carson, this must come as an awful shock to you," Wallace said gently, "but it was the Marquess of Dunne's express wish that you be made his heiress. He has claimed you as his child. The entail of the estate was rewritten to that effect before his death. His Majesty, King George, signed the papers. I do not joke about such important matters, Mrs. Carson."

She stared at him for a long moment, then whispered, "But I – I – I cannot be what he claims. My mother never worked at Dunnesmore Castle – and neither did my father –"

"Your father stole a silver tea service when he left without notice," Wallace said. "It financed the farm, and the Marquess thought that since he had attempted to steal his wife, maybe it was a worthy trade. He said nothing about the theft and your family was settled on the farm."

"This is ludicrous!" Elsie spluttered. "I've never heard so much… nonsense… in all my life! I am a housekeeper, not a Marchioness! My father was a farmer and a drinker and my mother –" Suddenly, she fell silent, remembering pear and treacle tarts and a doll that was far too fine for her parents to afford. She stood there, chest heaving as her mind went to war with itself, trying to resolve the problem.

How could that man have known such intimate details if he was not telling at least some approximation of the truth? Could he really be – could her father's constant cursing of her as a bastard have some basis in truth?

"I – I remember a man at my mother's funeral," she said, her voice shaking. "I was tired and sad and the adults were just looking at Becky and me with so much… pity… and so I sat there with my doll. A man sat down beside me on the sofa and talked to me, told me that he was very sorry my mam had died and that he was very fond of her. And he… he told me that I had a very pretty doll that looked very much like me, and someone had loved me very much to have bought it." She paused, trying to recall what had happened to the man, but all that stood out was her father shouting, "You have a lot of nerve to be here in my house, Dinsmore!"

She opened her eyes and her hand flew to her mouth, stifling a gasp.

"My Lady, surely you must see that this is what the Marquess wanted –"

"I doubt he wanted his estate to be handed over to a housekeeper," Elsie said very quietly. "I have no worthy clothes but I do know how to properly use my silverware. I've taken more than enough lessons from the ladies I've served."

The lawyer pulled a large portfolio from his briefcase and laid it out before her. "Your holdings include Dunnesmore Castle and 1200 acres of parkland, the famous Dunne Stables, a townhouse in Glasgow, a townhouse in Edinburgh, a house in London, the Lodge in the Highlands, as well as a sizeable bank account in your own name as well as in the estate's name."

Elsie's hands were shaking as she accepted the portfolio, looking through it. "Mr. Wallace… what happens if I say I do not want to accept this?"

"Everything will revert to the King," Wallace said simply. "You don't have long to decide. We've been looking for you for two years."

"I've been at Downton for over thirty years," she said coolly. "I've gone nowhere."

"Well," he said, "you are going somewhere now, My Lady."

* * *

"Has anyone seen Mrs. Carson?" Charles bellowed down the corridor.

"She went up to your room," Mrs. Patmore bellowed back.

He flinched; it still seemed an impropriety to call it 'their' bedroom. "Thank you, Mrs. Patmore!" He headed up to the attic and knocked on their bedroom door. "Mrs. Carson?"

He heard her crying, but he didn't dare open the door without her permission. He didn't want to wake the dragon; she was fierce and bitter when she wanted to be. A few tense seconds and then the door opened, revealing her disheveled face. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her nose running – which she attempted to take care of with her handkerchief. "Charles, I –"

"You had a visitor earlier," he said, no trace of accusation in his voice. "Was it the solicitor?"

She nodded and moved away from the door, allowing him to come in. She sat down on the bed and whispered, "I don't know what to do, Charles. I don't."

"So… tell me what's the matter, love," he encouraged gently, wrapping his arms around her.

She exhaled something that seemed a cross between a laugh and a sob. "I've been lied to my entire life," Elsie said, her voice bitter. "John Hughes was not my father. The man that beat me senseless was not my father. My father… didn't want aught to do with me."

"That sounds a bit harsh, love…"

"I remember the night my mother died," she said, the bitterness suddenly gone from her tone, replaced by a childlike tone of sadness. "My Da came home from the village, drunk to his eyeballs on god only knows what. It wasn't quite teatime yet, so there wasn't any food ready. He got very mad at mam and he hit her. He hit her hard enough she lost a tooth." She shuddered. "I've never… never gotten the image of the blood out of my mind." She was very quiet for a long time, just clinging to him. And then the story got worse. "She hit him with an iron skillet. While he was out on the floor, she took Becky and me and made us pack our things. And then she hitched the hay cart to the horse and we were about to make a run for it…" Elsie took a deep breath and closed her eyes. "I left my doll. I was… five? I was scared and I needed it, so mam went back inside to get it for me. But she never came back. Everyone said she fell down the stairs, but Becky said that Da beat her to death. After the funeral, he threw my doll in the fireplace and said if I wanted to be a baby, he would treat me like one." She looked up at him, her eyes dark and sad.

"Oh, Elsie," Charles whispered. "My love, I'm so sorry –"

"He was a cruel man, John Hughes," she whispered. "He always called me a bastard, always treated me like dirt on his shoe. And he was right, wasn't he? He was right. I am a bastard."

"My love," he murmured, trying to make her feel better, "it doesn't matter."

She sniffled and dabbed at her eyes. "It does. It matters so much, Charles. You have no idea how much." She was silent for a long moment, then said, "What do you know about the Marquess of Dunne?"

He frowned, racking his brain. "The last one died a couple of years ago, without issue," Charles said. "The Stables of Dunne are famous… we have one of their geldings at Downton, and he cost a pretty penny, let me tell you. There were rumors at one point that he had an heiress in mind to succeed him, but it was all flash – as far as I know, the estate has gone back to the Crown."

"Well, heavy is the head that bears the crown then," Elsie said in a quiet, strangled voice. "Because it's mine."

END PART FOURTEEN


	15. Chapter 15

Fifteen:  
Two Steps Sideways

Charles stared at her. No, he couldn't possibly have heard that right. Her hushed, hurried words gave him pause. "Elsie, what did you say?"

She bit her lip, unsure, then exhaled in a rush, "I didn't know, Charles, I swear I did not –"

"My god," he said quietly, "this changes everything."

"I know!" she almost shouted forcefully. "Do you think I don't know? Do you think I have no idea what this entails? I've lived my life as a servant, Charles, and now, suddenly, I'm going to be abovestairs. I'm terrified, love. I am." She drew away from him, wrapping her arms around her torso. "God knows they've made it perfectly clear that if I don't accept, everything reverts to the Crown, and I think that would disappoint… my father… more than anything else. He didn't care that I was probably still in Service. He didn't care about anything but providing for me." She frowned and whispered, "Maybe he did love me, care for me… I don't know. I'll never know for certain."

"Elsie," Charles said softly, "if he is giving his illegitimate child, and a girl at that, his entire estate, he loves you more than he ever could say with words. You don't understand the ramifications of breaking the entail."

She swallowed hard, then, and whispered, "Well, he's dead now. And the fact remains that I have a choice: either I accept the position, the title, the money and lands and everything… or I don't."

"And it is your choice to make," he assured her.

"I've already made my decision," she said very softly. "Mr. Wallace will be bringing the key to Greystone Walk by in the morning, and a bank manager will be coming by so I can sign for pocket money while we're here in London." She looked up at him, eyes shining with tears. "I just… I don't know if I can be that woman they want. No matter what happens, there will be scandal."

"Nothing more scandalous than a great lady having married a butler," he said, grave resignation in his tone. "I am sorry, Elsie. Had I known –" _If I had known, I would not have pressed my suit. I would have been content to live my life as Downton's butler and have merely admired you from afar…_

"No," she said sharply. "Don't you dare." She rounded on him then, her small fists colliding with his chest in a direct act of provocation. "Don't you dare act all nobly and push me away now. You're stuck with me, you great oaf! Regardless of what anyone else cares to think or speak or feel, I love you, you stupid man, and I will not take it back."

He pulled her into his arms and just held her. "You must tell His Lordship," he said very quietly. "Immediately."

"Oh, because that will go over well," she scoffed. "Your Lordship, I can't bow and scrape the floor for you anymore because you're supposed to show me deference," she said mockingly. "Charles, what am I going to do?"

He took a deep breath, then sighed. "You are going to sleep now," he said in a very gentle tone, "and in the morning… you will tell His Lordship."

"And we were worried about _Anwen_ in Service," Elsie huffed softly. She shook her head and sighed. "How silly we are."

He paused, taking her hand in his, gently caressing her fingers. "Elsie, no matter what, I will support you and endeavor to be the best husband I can be," Charles said very softly. "We are a partnership, now…"

"I don't think the Marquess thought a housekeeper and a butler could run his estate," she teased very softly. "We'll always be yelling at someone for doing it wrongly, and I'll not have my chatelaine and everything will feel so odd." She inhaled deeply, then exhaled. Charles watched her bosom rise and fall, assuring him that she was, in point of fact, still alive. "You will be Lord Dunne, won't you, love?"

"If it pleases your ladyship, I will be the lowliest clown," he murmured. "This changes nothing about us, Elsie. I still love you."

"Good, because this is going to be a very steep learning curve for both of us," she said. "Do you need any new things while we're here? Since I'm signing for pocket money and going to get an appropriate outfit for the wedding –"

"I could always use a new pair of undershorts," he said with a small smile. "Or more socks. So my beautiful lady wife will not have to repair them for me."

"Well, no, dear, we'll have servants for that," she teased, squeezing his hand. "My god, it all changed in the blink of an eye, didn't it?"

"Let's get ready for bed," he advised gently. "Tomorrow is going to be quite a trying day."

"How does one tell their employer that they have secretly been an heiress with a higher title for almost two years? It's going to be ugly." She paused, then smiled. "I know – the first thing I should do is repay Lord Grantham for our wedding…"

Charles groaned; she had no idea exactly how bad of an idea that was. "My love," he said, "that is the very last thing you should do."

She scowled at him. "Well, fine then," Elsie muttered. "How about a gift from the Dunne Stables, then? A good mare for hunting –"

"Stop trying so hard," he advised. "They will know you're new money and desperate to be liked if you do that."

"Well… I might well be!"

"It's time for bed," he said pointedly. "There is no point debating this tonight."

"Well, we can't both hand in our resignations tomorrow," she replied. "And he'll likely throw me out; I'll have to go to Greystone Walk tomorrow. It will break my heart to leave you."

He sighed and gave her a kiss. "We will cross that bridge in the morning," he said very gently. "But I would advise you to wear the dress you were planning on wearing to the wedding, rather than your uniform."

She nodded and leaned into him, closing her eyes. "I love you, Charles."

"I love you, Lady Elisabeth."

"Oh, shut it," she muttered, nudging him in the ribs.

After the wealth of insanity and emotion that had been laid on his doorstep for the last two months, he didn't even have the heart to tell her that he would never be allowed to walk with her, never be allowed to dine with her, never be allowed to dance with her – the chasm of class divide was already gaping between them. She was the Marchioness, and he was just her husband… a butler by trade.

His Elsie was destined for much greater, grander things than him.

And it hurt.

* * *

The morning passed and Elsie had her pocket money (_seven hundred pounds? They really thought she needed that much money for two weeks?) _and the keys to her London abode, as well as a letter from Mr. Wallace for Lord Grantham, notarized by His Majesty to import the voracity of her statement as to being the Marchioness of Dunne. It was terrifying; having given her answer to Mr. Wallace that morning, she had gone into her parlor and quietly ignored everything else.

She had no idea how she would adjust to the new circumstances; clearly, having pocket money of 700 quid was a new experience. But the idea that that would not even make a dent in her bank account – that she had a bank account in her name at all – was something altogether different and terrifying, if she had to be honest.

After luncheon, she plucked up the courage to leave her sitting room. The others were all flittering about, and she made her way upstairs to find Lord Grantham. He was in the main sitting room with his newspaper, and she cleared her throat. "My lord?" Elsie said softly, gaining his attention.

"Mrs. Carson," Lord Grantham greeted warmly. "How may I help? Do I need to leave the room so the maids can clean?"

Elsie turned to Thomas and Charles, eyeing them both up and down, and said, "I'm afraid, my lord, that I need to speak with you about an important matter of household staffing. May we speak candidly, without Mr. Barrow or Mr. Carson present, please?"

"Oh dear," Lord Grantham said, "this does not sound like it will be at all pleasant."

"Well… maybe not pleasant," Elsie acknowledged, "but perhaps blissfully quick?" She caught Charles's eye and smiled a little, then waited. When both men were gone and the doors shut behind them, she sat down primly on the couch opposite His Lordship.

"You are not in uniform, Mrs. Carson," Lord Grantham pointed out.

She swallowed hard and nodded. "Aye, m'lord," she agreed with him. "I did say it was a matter of household staffing." Elsie took a deep breath and exhaled. "There is no easy way of doing this. I am leaving your employ, with immediate effect, Lord Grantham."

He stared at her, wide-eyed. "But Mrs. Carson – I – I don't suppose there is any way to entice you to change your mind…"

"That's the thing, m'lord," she sighed. "I would not leave service unless there was a very good reason for it. Service has been my entire life's work and… and I will feel very empty and idle without it now." She finally looked up at him and said, "But I cannot continue my work without exposing you and your family to scandal, and that is the last thing you need now."

"I suppose you'll be going to another house – you will need a letter of reference –"

She took a deep breath and plunged in, head-first. "My Lord Grantham, I will be taking over administration for the late Marquess of Dunne," she said quietly.

There was silence for a moment, then he laughed. "That estate has already reverted to the Crown, Mrs. Carson –"

She fumbled with her small handbag and produced the letter. "Read this," she said very softly. "I believe it will explain everything sufficiently."

His thunderous demeanor eased as he read the letter, then he looked up at her with concern. "You are certain you wish to pursue this course, Mrs. Carson?"

"My father wished it," Elsie said softly, "and I must trust that he was attempting to care for me. As you can see… I cannot be Downton's housekeeper any longer. And it isn't fair of me to ask Mr. Carson to leave your employ, either."

"But of course, he must – he is your husband."

She smiled sadly. "We have not discussed it, m'lord."

"Robert," he corrected. "You have the advantage of rank and of friendship, Lady Elisabeth. You may call me by my Christian name."

She took a deep breath and murmured, "I am sorry, Robert. I never meant to hurt anyone –"

"You've not," he assured her. "And we will find another housekeeper: that won't be a problem. But replacing Carson will be."

"He may not wish to leave your employ," Elsie said very quietly. "I wouldn't ask it of him, either. If he wants to stay, it is his choice."

"But you were just married –"

"Yes," she agreed, "but there are some things you cannot ask of a man, Robert. I would not ask him to give up anything for me. That is part of why we never acted on our love for one another until now: the idea of leaving Downton was horrific to both of us."

"And now you must go."

She nodded. "I will be catching a taxi to Greyland Walk soon."

"So you'll just leave Carson here?" Robert frowned. "That seems rather uncouth, Lady Elisabeth."

"I cannot take him with me while he's your man," she pointed out, "and I would never ask him to leave. We cannot have it both ways, Robert." Elsie smiled sadly. "I… wish that things could be different."

"Stay this evening," he invited. "You can borrow one of Mrs. Crawley's dresses and we will put you in the – well, no, we cannot – but stay, please."

Elsie hesitated, then sighed. "All right," she agreed. "I'll stay until morning. But… I don't know how this will play out."

"None of us do – after all, I assumed that we would just be sacking a maid or a footman or something, not replacing a housekeeper because she ascended!" Robert spluttered.

"You make me sound like the bloody Lord and Savior," Elsie muttered. "I just… well, it's not as if things could stay the same, could they? It isn't feasible."

Robert smiled sadly. "I will miss you at Downton, Mrs. Carson," he admitted. "You have done your job well and fairly –"

Elsie smiled mischievously. "Maybe you should consider giving Daisy a promotion," she said.

His eyebrows knit together, then he laughed. "Oh, I needed that – but it seems quite unfair that both Lady McCabe and yourself will be going away," Robert sighed. "She spoke to me this morning. She will be returning to Scotland with her daughter."

Elsie frowned. "She hasn't said anything to me."

"Well, since you're both going to Scotland…"

"Scotland is a big place," she reminded him coolly. "I am sorry; I've taken up too much of your time already."

"Why don't you go see Mrs. Crawley about appropriate dinnerwear?" Robert suggested.

"So you can bring my husband in here and question him?"

Robert sighed and shrugged. "At least my motives are pure," he muttered.

END PART FIFTEEN


	16. Chapter 16

Sixteen:  
One Step Backward

Elsie came back downstairs a couple of hours later and stopped Thomas. "Have you seen Mr. Carson?" she inquired.

"He's still up with His Lordship," Thomas replied with a scathing tone. "Don't you think you'd better get into your uniform, Mrs. Carson?" he asked, semi-mockingly.

Elsie held her calm in check, merely smiling. "Well," she said, "I suppose I will catch him at the dressing gong in a few minutes. I do have need to speak with him."

Thomas's lip twitched into a snide smile. "I'm sure you do, Mrs. Carson."

Her lips pursed together into a frown. "Mr. Barrow, I do not appreciate your tone," she said in a warning voice, "nor the implication it holds. You will refrain from making such comments."

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Carson, but you cannot reprimand me – only Mr. Carson is allowed that."

She almost wanted to do it, to have him sacked for his insolence, his scheming, maniacal hatred… but then she thought better of it. It would seem as if she were holding a grudge against him; even if she was, there was no point in perpetuating the issue. And it would be far more rewarding to wait until her dinnertime entrance to shame him. She had a particularly disdainful look she wanted to put to use just for Mr. Barrow.

He seemed to take her toss of the head, rolling of eyes, and irritation as encouragement to continue being conniving and cheeky. She didn't really care anymore about him; aside from the fact that if she were to have him sacked, the Crawleys would have lost a housekeeper, the nanny, the under butler – and quite probably, the butler himself – in the span of a few days. Downton would not survive such upheaval, and she did care more for the estate than anything else.

She moved silently through the halls, keenly missing her chatelaine, the clinking keys that were familiar and welcome weights against her waist and hip, the scissors and needle and thimble pouch that Charles had gifted her several years before. She felt naked without them, which was absolutely ridiculous, wasn't it? She had clothes on – fine clothes – but the absence of the things that had been so important to her was both unnerving and a bit frightening, if she must be truthful. She felt lost, adrift on a sea of not belonging in one world and not quite being allowed in another.

Elsie knocked upon the door to Isobel Crawley's room. The older woman called out, "Come in!" She went inside, not daring to hope that Robert had spoken to her already. "Mrs. Carson, please do come in."

Elsie nodded and said, "Have you spoken to Lord Grantham?"

There was a long pause. Isobel looked her up and down for a moment, then said, "I have. I must say, though, that I am delighted for you – and I hope that not referring to you as Lady Elisabeth has not offended you."

"I am not offended," Elsie murmured. "It is all so new."

"I remember when Matthew and I first came to Downton – I understand better than you know, my dear," Isobel said with a smile on her lips. "Robert said you would need to borrow a gown for this evening's dinner – I have just the one. Should I send my maid round to dress you later?"

Elsie shook her head. "No, I'll be able to manage myself," she said quietly. "I am fearful, though, of the family's reaction. No doubt Lady Violet will faint or soil herself."

Isobel's smile grew decidedly tetchy. "Lady Violet can go hang," she muttered under her breath. "You outrank her anyway. What she does should be none of your concern."

"I've been with the family for over thirty years," Elsie pointed out. "I cannot just… walk over them. Not like that. Not like this."

Isobel went to the wardrobe and got an exquisite burgundy and gold gown down. "Well," she said, "I think that you should keep in mind that you should not look up to them anymore. You are a woman of means now – what does your husband think of all of this? Will he be leaving Downton? Please tell me that you're not considering separation. It's very clear that you're terribly, hopelessly in love with one another."

"I love Charles very much," Elsie murmured. "But I cannot ask him to leave Service for me. It would destroy him."

"There is no shame in asking him to stay with you," Isobel said in a gentle tone. "Your circumstances have changed. You are a married couple. There is no shame in any of that. In this case, love is everything that you need." She handed over the gown and added, "And you may keep that. It is far too glamorous for me – I was going to wear it once for the wedding supper and then rid myself of it. But I think it will flatter you greatly."

"I am very grateful," Elsie murmured. "I'm going shopping tomorrow, and I'll be moving to Greystone Walk as well. I… don't know what will happen after."

"What will happen after is that you will be happy with your Mr. Carson, and you shall spoil your grandchildren and great-grandchildren absolutely rotten."

Elsie sighed and said, "Yes, well… this puts many things into perspective, I think."

"Are you certain I shouldn't send my maid to you later?"

Elsie nodded. "I'll be fine."

"Yes, you will be fine, but will you be appropriate for dinner?" Isobel countered with a smile.

"Oh… fine. Send her up. I'm still going to be in the servants' rooms tonight because, well, the rest are full up and no one should have to share," Elsie murmured. "And that way, I can share with Charles."

"You two are adorable," Isobel said with a happy sigh. "I think it's wonderful."

"What is?"

"That the two of you would come together after all of this time –"

Elsie felt her eyes narrow into a glare despite herself. "We've been the best of friends for ten years; love was inevitable," she muttered.

"As inevitable as the sun rising and setting each day," Isobel teased. "Do you need to borrow jewels, as well, then?"

Elsie considered the notion, then dismissed it. "I have a couple of things that will do," she admitted quietly. "Nothing fancy. Just a gold locket and a pearl brooch."

"All right – but do know that I am on your side," Isobel said. "And that you may come to me with anything on your mind."

"Thank you," Elsie murmured. "That means the world right now."

* * *

Charles had been announcing everyone as they came into the drawing room for a good ten minutes straight. He knew it was his job to do so, but, today of all days, it had begun to chafe him about the neck a bit. Knowing that he needed to choose a path and quickly had become an unwelcome distraction; he was consumed with the idea of taking care of business and his wife.

So much so that he was stunned when she stopped in front of him. "Hello," Elsie murmured.

He was speechless; she was wearing a burgundy and gold dress with a low-cut neckline, slightly higher than ankle hemline, and short, fluttery sleeves that moved around her upper arms like ripples on a pond. Her hair was styled differently, similarly to Lady Edith's, and she had very simple, natural makeup on. Dear god, she was the most exquisite woman he had ever laid eyes upon!

She smiled slightly at him and breathed, barely audible, "You may help me remove it all later." Louder, she added, "Lady Elisabeth Dunne, Mr. Carson."

He startled back into the present – not his hazy fantasies of soft skin and delicious kisses – and cleared his throat, announcing, "The Lady Elisabeth Dunne."

"Oh!" Her Ladyship cried. "I wasn't aware we were entertaining this evening –"

"We are not," His Lordship assured her.

Elsie took a deep breath, let her fingers brush rather improperly against Charles's, then stepped into the drawing room. "Robert," she greeted, "Isobel…" She hadn't been cleared yet to acknowledge the others by Christian names, so she refrained.

"Mrs. Carson?" Her Ladyship said, eyes wide. "What on earth?"

Charles should not have watched, should not have listened, but this was his Elsie – his wife, his love – and she was terrified.

Mary's voice came, cutting and icy cold. "I see," she said. "Papa, cousin Isobel, I would think you would be smart enough not to encourage this sort of madness in the servants. They will all think they can put on a pretty frock and come upstairs, then. Mrs. Carson, I am very sorry that you've had such a cruel trick played upon you –"

Lord Grantham hissed, "You will hold your tongue, Mary."

"But, Papa –"

"For once in your life, will you shut your mouth and listen to me?" Lord Grantham said in a furious tone. "Lady Elisabeth –"

"Don't call her that – she's the housekeeper!" Mary exclaimed indelicately.

Lady Violet suddenly snapped from her chair by the fire, "If I ever hear of you disrespecting Mrs. Carson again, Mary, I will take you over my knee myself. You are not too old to have the fear of god beaten into you." She peered over at Elsie and said, "You do not play idle games, Mrs. Carson. If you have been introduced as a Lady, then you will state your case."

Elsie was remarkably matter-of-fact and blunt. "I have left Lord Grantham's employ," she said, "due to a matter of delicacy and inheritance. I did not feel that His Lordship would want it to get out that he was employing a Marchioness as his housekeeper. The damage done would be irreparable."

Edith was the first to laugh, a sound of utter disbelief. "Oh, Mrs. Carson… that is – that is hilarious."

"It is true," Lord Grantham said.

"No," Mary said, "it cannot be – Mrs. Carson comes from a farming family – and Dunne is not a farming family." She gave Elsie a dirty, haughty look. "We should turn you over for impersonating a noblewoman…"

If his decision to leave had not been made before, it was made then. Charles almost leapt at the girl he had championed and protected for almost her entire life. But she was attacking his lady wife and –

Elsie cocked her head and smiled. "Lady Mary, despite what you think, I am not impersonating anyone. I am the Marchioness of Dunne; there's nothing to be done about it now but to go on with my life."

"And how is it, then, that you went from a glorified housemaid," Mary said, voice dripping with contempt, "to a Marchioness in the span of a day?"

"It happened almost two years ago," Lady Violet interrupted, her tone irritable. "Really, Mary, would you please calm yourself? Lady Elisabeth cannot possibly answer your questions to your satisfaction if you are blowing steam at her."

Elsie sighed. "My father died nearly two years ago," she said. "That much is true."

The Dowager cracked a smile. "I always thought you looked rather much like Lord Dunne – but it was rather unladylike of me to think it."

Elsie shrugged. "Say what you will, m'lady," she said softly. "For it would likely be true: my natural father and my mother were never married."

Lady Violet smirked over at Mary. "There were rumors that the Marquess of Dunne left everything to an illegitimate daughter; no one believed it for a moment, but it seems to be true. And as such, Mary, you must treat Lady Elisabeth with respect and kindness: this is entirely new territory for her."

"M'lady," Elsie began.

Lady Violet held up her hand and said, "Please, call me Violet. Your dearly departed Papa was my mother's nephew by marriage. I am honored to call you a friend, Elisabeth Carson." After a pause, she added, "But now I feel a bit peckish – are we going to eat or are we going to rage against the unfairness of having a former member of the household sitting at the dining table?" She shot Mary a caustic glare, then strode purposefully toward the dining room.

Mary pursed her lips together and tossed her head, refusing to look at Elsie. Charles felt a sudden fury at the young woman for her insolent behavior; Elsie was now her better, however much it was an accident of birth in the first place. How dare she treat her as if she were still the maid taking away her mending? How _dare_ she –

In that moment, he was so incensed that he said, "My Lord, I must take leave of the party or I will be forced to say things that I will regret."

Elsie turned and looked at him. "Charles, no," she said softly. "You cannot."

"And am I to stand by and watch my wife be trod upon?" he snapped. "I cannot. I will not." He took a deep breath and added, "My Lord Grantham, I wish to resign – effective immediately."

"Charles, stop," Elsie said, crossing the room to take his hands in her own. "Stop; please stop and think about what you're saying."

"I've grown weary, tired, old," Charles said. "And I can think of no pleasure greater than following you around the countryside, Elsie. Let the children have this; you and I may run away."

"I thought you wanted to stay at Downton," she murmured. Her hands were so small, so cool against his warm skin. "We hadn't decided anything yet –"

"Downton isn't home without you," he said. "Whither thou go, so shall I."

"You can't leave!" Mary almost shouted. "My god, Carson – you've spent your life at Downton –"

Elsie's cool hands left his and she rounded on Mary. "I've never thought to hurt you," she hissed, "but I have a mind to right now, Mary Crawley. We have spent a lifetime at Downton as your servants. We have chosen to leave; do we not have rights? Does a mere servant not have the right to walk away from a life not well lived and begin again? Do you really hate my husband so much that you would separate us just to keep him for your own selfish ends?" Once the Scottish fire was lit, there was no stopping her. "You have no right. Charles has offered his resignation. I have given mine. We will be happy together regardless of circumstances because we love one another! Why else would we have married? This is not something that is merely for the sake of convenience, Lady Mary – I love that man right there. _I love him_. You cannot think to take that away from either of us."

Mary opened her mouth, and said, "Mere servants cannot speak to me in that manner –"

Robert cut her off. "Carson, I accept your resignation. Mary, you forget your place. She does not speak for the family, Lady Elisabeth. She only speaks to her own selfish behavior."

Violet was watching the exchange from the doorway, and said in a lofty tone, "Mary, dear, you would do well to remember that likened to Lady Dunne, we are merely servants in the scope of things."

Mary was red in the face, caught somewhere between tears and utter fury. "My apologies, Lady Dunne," she said in a tone that clearly meant she didn't believe a word she was saying. "For my appalling behavior. Carson, I hope you will be happy as a follower." She flounced into the dining room.

Cora was still gaping, open-mouthed, at the whole scene before her. "She does not speak for the rest of us," she said quietly to Elsie. "You must believe that –"

"I do," Elsie said, calming down slightly. "But I think that it would be best if I went upstairs to change and we leave for Greyland Walk tonight, Lady Grantham."

Charles knew how much his lady wife hated an atmosphere, and what had he done but provoke one? His hand found hers and held on tightly, their fingers threading together. She glanced over at him and smiled sadly. "I am sorry," he said. "I could not stand to see her abuse you in that manner –"

"Have you heard me complain?" Elsie murmured. "Let's go upstairs and pack."

"Please tell me you won't turn me out without a reference," he said in a weak tone.

"Daft man," she whispered back, "you don't need a reference to be my husband. I love you."

His heavy heart began to sing.

END PART SIXTEEN


	17. Chapter 17

Seventeen:  
One Step Forward

It didn't take that long to pack their things; Robert had kindly offered them use of the chauffer and one of the cars for their trip to Greyland Walk, so they did not have to worry about telephoning for a taxi. They crept down the stairs, the back stairs, into the servants' hall, hoping to get through without incident and meet the chauffer in the back.

"And where do you think you two are skulking off to?" Mrs. Patmore shouted.

"Beryl, hush!" Elsie hissed. "We're leaving. Give everyone our love, and pass these around the table," she instructed, holding out a wad of ten pound notes. "You'll not see us again for a while, I'd imagine."

"Why are you going? Where did you get this money?" Mrs. Patmore asked anxiously.

"You'll know everything when Mr. Barrow comes downstairs later," Elsie promised, giving her dear friend a kiss on the cheek. "I wish you the very best of luck."

Charles embraced Mrs. Patmore and said, "I shall miss your apple tart, Mrs. Patmore." With that, he pulled away and took Elsie's bag. "We need to go, dearest, before the proverbial dung hits the ceiling."

"Tell Anna," Elsie said softly. "Tell Anna that I love her dearly and if she wishes to come to tea tomorrow, to ask Mrs. Crawley where we will be. Tell her not to ask Mary; do not provoke that woman in any way."

"Where will you be?" Mrs. Patmore asked in a conspiratorial whisper.

Elsie gave her a fond look and smiled before she passed over some more money. "Greyland Walk," she murmured. "And the storeroom key is under your bedroom door. Feel free to run amok." She took Charles's arm and they headed out into the night.

Once their bags were stowed and they were settled in the back of the motor car, Charles dared take her hand, which made Elsie smile. "Hello, love," she murmured. "I am sorry for the scene we caused –"

"I should be apologizing to you," he said with a low, sad sigh. "I behaved abominably."

She smiled wider. "I cannot say that it was unjustified," she said. "If I ever see Lady Mary Crawley again, it might be too soon for my tastes."

"She will not seek you out; she will try to hide her shame when reality sets in," Charles said, moving his arm around her shoulder. "I'm certain that will lead to a dramatic shift in London society, however, if the truth were to come out."

"I don't care," Elsie said. "There are others far more deserving of my attention than that uppity minx."

He pressed a kiss to her temple and she leaned against him, relishing the feel of his arms around her. "Elsie," he said softly, "I hope you understand that I intended to leave of my own accord. But Lady Mary's behavior may have prompted me to do it sooner than I'd hoped. I would never leave you; I could not be separated from you for long. The Season has always been torturous for me –"

"Shh," she whispered. "I know."

The car drew to a halt outside the gates, and waited. Suddenly, a face appeared by the window of the car, making Elsie jump. She opened the door and said, "Hello – I am Lady Elisabeth. You were to be expecting us in the morning, but our plans changed."

"Aye," came the young man's reply. "Lord Grantham called over to tell us. And who is that with you?"

"My husband, Charles," Elsie said with a smile, tightening her hold on his hand. "May we pass and be allowed to go inside and get a spot of dinner?"

"Allowed, m'lady?" the lad said, bewildered. "It is your house – you are allowed to do anything that you wish."

"Thank you, Mr. –" Charles said in a kind but stern manner meant to cut off the awkward conversation and move into a gentler topic.

"Drew," the young man said. "Hubert Drew."

"Thank you, Mr. Drew," Elsie said.

The gates opened and they pulled through, up the winding drive to the house. It was enormous, stately, and quite showy in comparison to Grantham House. Electric lamps lit the courtyard and many of the windows; the exterior of the house was stone, grey and forboding, yet the house itself seemed warm and full of life. A footman offered his hand to help Elsie down from the motor car, and she was smiling as soon as her feet touched the ground.

"M'lady Elisabeth, welcome to Greyland Walk," came the authoritative tone of a Scottish butler. He was tall – not as tall as Charles – and burly, but not overly so. "I am Hugh Braeburn, butler. This is Mrs. Umbridge, our housekeeper here – there are housekeepers at each of the houses, m'lady…"

"May we save the introductions until later?" Elsie inquired gently. "We managed to leave Grantham House without dinner; is there any way that we can join you downstairs for a meal? I wouldn't want to put anyone out to open the dining room just for Charles and I."

"M'lady, that is not done," Braeburn said, giving her a dour look.

"Well, it is done tonight," Elsie said in her most no-nonsense housekeeper's voice. "Tomorrow, we can begin the bowing and the scraping – tonight, I just want to eat something and retire to bed. Is it the same way for you, Charles?"

"I would tend to agree with Mr. Braeburn about establishing ground rules now –"

She turned and glared at him. "This is not the old boys' butlers club," she said caustically. "I wear the trousers in this house, mister, and you'd best not forget it."

He paused, then swallowed. "I think a nice bowl of soup with the household staff would be wonderful," he amended.

"Thank you, dear," she said pleasantly. "Mrs. Umbridge, will you kindly show us downstairs? Mr. Braeburn, maybe Charles should help you select a wine for us to share with the staff to celebrate our arrival?" she suggested, knowing it would rankle both men a little. She had a wee bit of the devil inside her, after all.

Braeburn's eyes narrowed. "Yes, m'lady," he said. "M'lord, will you please come with me?"

"I am not a Lord," Charles said. "You may call me Mr. Carson." The two men headed off inside.

"M'lady," the housekeeper said, "we had a visit from Mr. Wallace earlier today to tell us the good news – Mr. Braeburn was half-expecting to find us employed by His Majesty, truth be told." Mrs. Umbridge was tall and very thin with mousy brown hair speckled with silver and an easy smile. She looked to be about forty or so, which made Elsie feel that much older. "We were not expecting to have Lord Henry's natural daughter come to stay."

Elsie sighed softly. "He did claim me; he had to have claimed me in order for the succession to happen. You cannot just gift an estate to an illegitimate child."

"You know that and I know that, but bloody butlers live in their own fantasy world," Mrs. Umbridge said with a short laugh.

"Oh, you don't have to explain that to me," Elsie sighed. "I've been in Service almost all my life, and I was wonderful at it until the bloody butler came out of nowhere." Her dismal face relaxed into a smile as they walked through the grand foyer. "How long have you been here?"

"Five years in April," Mrs. Umbridge said. "We have it down to a clockwork science, m'lady – but if you'd care to inspect our work…"

Elsie smiled. "I am certain your work is up to par," she said comfortingly. "But I would ask that a maid brings clean sheets to Mr. Carson's and my bedroom every morning – and I will change them myself."

"M'lady, that isn't proper –"

"It will keep me humble," Elsie murmured. "And it will be a tie to my old life. I do not want the grandeur of my surroundings to make me forget, Mrs. Umbridge."

The housekeeper nodded slowly, then said, "I think it has been some time since we've had a mistress of the house – let alone a fair one."

Elsie smiled. "I think we shall get along just fine," she said. "I will, of course, require your assistance in advertising and interviewing for a lady's maid. It is not every day, after all, that a housekeeper requires such a thing."

Mrs. Umbridge smiled. "Yes, m'lady."

"Did we interrupt your dinner?"

"Yes, m'lady, but do not be offended for me saying so. It is only soup, bread, and cheese tonight – as we said outside, we were not expecting you until tomorrow. There is a grand feast planned tomorrow evening –"

"Oh, no, you mustn't go to any trouble," Elsie said gently. "Unless Charles and I throw a party, we are fine to eat whatever is made for the rest of the household. I do not want any of you to feel as though we are here to disrupt your routine right now."

"M'lady, it's your house," the housekeeper replied.

"And it will do me no good to waltz in and upset the status quo," Elsie pointed out as Charles and Braeburn returned to the foyer, bottles of wine in hand. "Did you choose well?" she inquired. "I want everyone to have a bit with my thanks for the jobs well-done between my father's death and my arrival."

"I believe we will enjoy it," Charles said. "The wine cellar is quite amazing –"

She smiled indulgently. "I suppose you will be adding to the stores at each house, then, love?"

He smiled, looking for all the world like a little boy who had gotten a sweetie at the sweetie shop. "Oh, I should very much love that, Mrs. Carson."

She gave him a kiss on the cheek and then gestured for the butler and housekeeper to lead the way. They walked into the downstairs, Elsie smiling at the simple familiarity of it all. The house staff were all cheerfully eating and carrying on, when one of them looked up and saw them arrive, hopping to their feet. Soon everyone followed suit.

"Lady Elisabeth and Mr. Carson have arrived a night early," Braeburn said with a scowl on his lips. "May we find them a place to sit – Her Ladyship would like to dine with us tonight."

Two of the youngest maids immediately got up and retreated to the kitchens, leaving two empty seats. Elsie immediately felt badly for having turned them out of their chairs. "Thank you," she said. "I know it is never easy to work under a new employer – so I would like to ease your burdens. I have worked, myself, as a lady's maid, a housemaid, and a housekeeper. My husband has been a valet, footman, and butler. If you ever require assistance or feel that we are not pulling our weight in the household, please feel free to speak up." She paused, then added, "And because we have so rudely interrupted your dinner, Mr. Carson and Mr. Braeburn have selected a few bottles of wine from the cellar for us to share this evening. I would like to be a fair employer; please do not force me to be an unkind one."

She and Charles sat down, and the kitchen maid brought in two bowls of soup – hearty split pea with bacon – along with more crusty bread and a plate of cheese. The maid smiled and dropped a curtsey, then retreated back to the kitchen.

Dinner was not a robust affair, but Elsie hadn't expected it to be. They merely introduced themselves informally, getting to know one another. Charles didn't much seem to care for this approach – neither did Braeburn – but Elsie thought that an intimate knowledge of her staff might help in the running of things. It always had at Downton – now it was even more important.

When dinner was over and the wine finished, Mrs. Umbridge said, "I'll show you to your bedroom, m'lady."

"And I will show you to yours, Mr. Carson," Braeburn said with a small smirk.

Charles's eyes narrowed. "Separate bedrooms?" he said. "That will never do."

"My husband and I share a bed," Elsie said firmly. The others were absolutely horrified, and Elsie felt a small pang of regret that she had announced so freely that they shared a marriage bed. "Only one bedroom will be required," she added hastily.

"Very well, m'lady," Braeburn grumbled. "I will fetch Mr. Carson's bags and have them moved to your bedroom."

"Our bedroom," she corrected with a small smile on her lips. "Tomorrow, Mr. Braeburn, you must take us on a tour of the house, if you please."

"Yes, m'lady." He did not look best pleased.

She didn't much care.

* * *

Charles looked around the positively palatial bedroom and said, "When I mentioned wanting a slightly bigger bed, I'm not entirely certain that I meant on this scope."

His beautiful lady wife giggled like a schoolgirl. "Charles Carson, I never," she teased ever so softly. The door was closed, the servants gone for the night… and they were left alone to their own devices. Their nightclothes were conspicuous in the epic grandeur of the room; hell's bells, Charles wondered if they even really belonged in the majestic master suite at all. But Elsie believed that they did, and surely that was enough?

"I don't think that Mr. Braeburn cares for me at all," Elsie commented dryly.

"He sees it beneath his dignity and the dignity of the house to allow you to make your own rules," Charles said. "That is all." He drew her into his arms and murmured, "Now, it has been a very trying day, and I think we should both get some rest." He loved the way she felt in his arms; slight of stature, but she was not about to blow over in the wind, curved in all the right places to fit up against him, and she nuzzled his chest with her chin in an adorable child-like way that made him smile.

"But what if I don't want to rest yet?" she teased. "Besides, Mr. Carson, you know as well as I do that they'll not intrude in the morning until we ring the bell. We could test out this big new bed of ours and sleep in tomorrow." She did the snuggling, nuzzling thing and smiled up at him.

"Why, Mrs. Carson, are you trying to seduce me?" he asked, aghast.

"And if I am?" she shot back with a grin. "Is it so very shocking that a wife would want her husband?" With that, her small hand moved in a southernly direction, slipping beneath the waist of his pajama bottoms. He inhaled sharply when her fingers grazed against his rapidly rising erection, and he knew that sleep was the last possible thing on her mind now. He decided that taking up her blatant invitation would probably be the smartest thing he could possibly do, and as such, he leaned in and kissed her.

He was hard pressed to remember specific things about their conjugal encounters; the rush of emotions and tidal wave of sensation were usually too much to fight against. So he did not fight it, just drifted with the tides. Her kisses were sweet like the honeycomb he'd gotten as treats as a child, a just reward for his patience. The feel of her body against his was more exquisite than any of the tastes of wine he'd had over the years – aside from the wine on her lips. _God, he was so in love it was positively indecent!_

The mere freedom of the act of lovemaking was enough to drive him to the very brink of madness, distraction, lust. He loved her so much that it was a pain for her to be away from him. He wanted her to know that; he wanted her to know that he was hers in every way.

And he loved the way her eyes lit up and she smiled when he was finally nude. "Mine," she whispered in a deep, reverential tone. "All mine."

_All yours, Elsie – all yours, always._

END PART SEVENTEEN


	18. Chapter 18

Eighteen:  
Shiny and New

Elsie woke up with her head tucked into Charles's chest, her arm casually draped across the expanse of his belly, and her legs tangled up with his. They were quite naked; she was still sore from the last round of lovemaking – and a bit bruised, if she had to tell the truth. She felt her lips twitching toward a smile, though, because every bruise was well-earned. And they would all hide beneath her dress; no one would know they were there except for Elsie and her Charlie. She sighed softly and gently stroked his belly, working lower where she knew he would be aroused already.

His voice rumbled, though he spoke softly, "And what do you think you are doing, Your Ladyship?"

"Waking up with a smile, my dearest," she purred. "Thinking about the right state you've gotten me into. I didn't even know I could bend like that."

"Well," he replied, "now you do know."

She kissed his chest and smiled. "Good morning, Charles."

"Good morning, m'lady," he replied.

"Oh, stop it," she sighed. "You shouldn't mock."

"I am not mocking you."

She pouted up at him and muttered, "I suppose we should get up. It's half seven – they'll be expecting us to ring for breakfast."

"Probably not till eight at least," he rumbled. "Most respectable people don't get up till nine or ten –"

"I've not slept this late, aside from being ill, since I was pregnant," Elsie sighed. "I feel positively decadent." Charles smiled and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "Must we get up?"

"I have no plans," he said. "But didn't you want to go shopping?"

"I have to go," she whined. "I don't want to go. There is a difference."

He chuckled. "Are you going to be presentable for your grandson's wedding, then?"

She made a face. "I suppose, if I must be," she muttered.

"You can't very well waltz in there naked," he pointed out with a smile. "Though, goodness knows, I wouldn't mind seeing you naked more often."

"I _am_ naked," she reminded him gently, wriggling against him to make her point. Making love was meant to happen at night, in the dark, and being so provocative in broad daylight made her feel absolutely wanton. She worried her lip, wondering briefly if he thought her entirely too forward, but that notion was dispelled when he carefully rolled them over onto their sides, and kissed her with gentle passion.

"I know," he breathed. "And I am loving every moment of it."

"Charlie," she scolded, blushing a little. She knew she could hardly pretend to be a virtuous maiden, not after the things they had done, but his unguarded comments of lust, love, and devotion always seemed to hit her out of the blue. "You cannot be happy with seeing this old body of mine all the time –"

"But I am," he protested softly. "I love you from the tips of your toes all the way up to the hook of your nose."

She slapped his chest half-heartedly. "You naughty man," she murmured, though she smiled.

"Your feet are small and delicate," he said, "but they carry you everywhere. Your ankles are beautiful, and your legs go on for miles…"

"I don't need a recitation of all the parts and places of me that you care for," she said in a gruff way, though she was flattered by his attention to detail, as always. "You may show me, though… Show me." It was an invitation, blatant and warm as the sunlight that was trickling in past the curtains. Her aches and soreness had already been supplanted by the warmth of arousal and desire – and her desire was only for him to touch her, to love her, to be the man she adored beyond all measure.

He stared at her for a long time, the depths of his emotion almost unreadable, then he gently pushed an errant lock of her hair back out of her face and kissed her forehead. Delicately, sweetly, he kissed every inch of her face, save her lips; he took great care in nibbling her ear lobes and whispering sweet nothings in her ears. When he finally kissed her upon the lips, it was no sweet kiss: it was a conflagration, a kiss to set the world on fire. Their tongues danced, dueled, fueled by lust, love, and a need that neither wanted to acknowledge, for it burned so fiercely and bright as to frighten them both.

Everything else was instinct, a beacon of light in the darkness, finding a way to be as close to each other as humanly possible… Fingers wandered, the gentle brush of tactile skin against more skin, an expanse of nerves and feeling that stretched out like a desert before them. And the joining… that would be their oasis, a harbor in the storm of want, of need. She needed a firm but delicate touch; he needed her. Together, they sang a discordant harmony that somehow was the most beautiful sound on earth.

She felt alternately like she was on fire and in the chilliest of cellars. He made her shiver, moan, pant, and then cry out with pleasure as her body heated. His lips on her most delicate parts brought her so much joy, she might just die of delight. When she came apart beneath his mouth, all she could think was that he had better not have done anything near as intimate with anyone else. She tried to keep her jealous, petty nature in check, but there were times when she could not bear to think of him touching anyone else that way; she could not handle knowing that he had loved another so deeply as he did her now.

He seemed to understand her silence, the sudden change of mood, and he kissed his way back up her body. "There is no one but you," Charles whispered. "No one, Elsie." He nuzzled her breast, gently working his tongue over her nipple, taut and pebbled with her want. She whimpered and moaned, begging for him to finish what he'd begun.

She moaned, low and long, when he gently pushed into her, rocking her hips to make the transition smoother, easier. When he was buried completely inside her, his weight balanced on his forearms so he was barely a breath's whisper apart from her, she murmured, "There has never been anyone but you, my Charles." Joe Burns would have been an act of desperation, a marriage of convenience but not of love; with Charles, it was if he was to be the sun to her earth, rising and setting and never being away long enough that she would have to experience utter darkness. There was no one in the world as important to her as Charles Carson. No one.

They moved together, in sync as always, their private dance as intimate as anything in the world. If she could be joined with him forever, it would be wonderful… aside from when they fought. Then she wanted to be just as far apart as possible. The man was insufferable, arrogant, stubborn, and she trembled with restrained desire whenever he attempted to be masterful with her. _Good god, he was magnificent._

An intense wave of pleasure threatened to drown them both; he collapsed on top of her, and she lay below, panting and moaning, trying to find her breath. "Dear god," Charles breathed, "I think… married life will suit us well."

She hesitated, then giggled. "I love you," she exhaled softly.

They lay together, naked, beneath the duvet, holding one another and whispering sweet nothings and nonsense. There was a knock on the door, then it opened. "M'lady, Lady Rosamund Painswick is here to see you. She is quite insistent that she must speak with you immediately. I'm to dress you."

"We would like a bit of privacy," Charles grumbled.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Carson," the maid said apologetically. "I realize that it's early yet –"

"It's quite late," Elsie commented softly, giving him a lingering kiss, then rising from bed. She was keenly aware of her lack of clothing, but decided it wasn't worth fighting with anyone over. The maid's eyes widened when she realized what she'd interrupted, but by then, Elsie was already pulling out the dress she intended to wear. "Can you run and get a tray for Mr. Carson's breakfast, please? I can dress myself. Please inform Lady Rosamund that I will be down in no more than fifteen minutes. See to it that she has tea and whatever breakfast you can have Mrs. Barker whip up for her. Thank you, Sarah."

The door closed again, and Charles made a disgruntled noise from the bed. "I will not eat my breakfast on a tray," he muttered. "Just because I am your husband does not mean I should be allowed to lollygag in bed like a slattern."

She turned and smiled at him over her shoulder. "Hardly a slattern, my love," Elise murmured. "You have more than earned your keep." With that, she calmly put on her knickers, her shift, and her corset in that order. The lacing of her corset was an easy thing after so long: it seemed like she'd been born into one. She had been born with curvature of the spine, a mild defect from her mother, but it had straightened itself out almost as soon as she'd been laced into a corset at the ripe age of seven. She'd never worn it as tightly laced as maybe she should have, but she was content with her lot. Especially when her husband – it caused her such great thrills to think of Charles that way – watched her dress. Next came her corset cover, her blouse, and her skirt. She'd thought only a few years ago that a hemline above her ankles was beyond shocking, but suddenly, she had found the appeal of a hemline at mid-calf; it made Charles's dark eyes even darker and warmer. She discovered that she loved his eyes as much as that risqué hemline.

"You look gorgeous, as always," he commented in an off-handed manner as he got up and puttered around, beginning to get dressed himself.

"Fair enough to meet Lady Rosamund?" Elsie asked, abruptly anxious.

"Very fair indeed," he said. "Quite fine for a housekeeper." The teasing note in his voice made her blush.

She went about pinning up her hair in a hurry, then slipped her rings back onto her finger and murmured, "I'll be back shortly – I hope." She walked over and gave him a kiss. "If I'm in there for more than an hour, please send reinforcements."

"Lady Rosamund isn't that bad," he scoffed.

"Mayhaps not," Elsie agreed, "but if she's been sent as an emissary of the Family… I can't imagine it going very well after last night." She sighed. "Of course, she's also an insufferable snob and might just be trying to cozy up into my pocket as an ally. Either way, I've not got the patience to deal with machinations right now. Not when I've been assured that the invitations for me to dine and visit people will be pouring in, since His Majesty is announcing my appointment today at Court." She frowned. "I really must go shopping today, mustn't I?"

"Will her ladyship ask her husband along for his opinion?" Charles inquired, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh, definitely," she agreed. "I cannot allow you to run amok in the house by yourself, terrorizing the staff."

"I do not 'run amok'," he said with a scowl.

"You'll not be running at all in just your undershorts," she pointed out. "I'm going down – please try not to seduce the maid that brings up your breakfast." She gave him a kiss on the cheek and smiled. "I love you, Charles. Nothing will change that – not my circumstances, not my family, not any of it. I love you with all of my heart, my dear butler."

"And I you, my dearest Mrs. Hughes," he said, smiling back at her.

She left their bedroom with a spring in her step and a smile on her lips. By the time she reached the sitting room, it had turned dazzling with happiness. This was her house, her new life, and she had Charles firmly in her corner with her. It was all very blissful. "Lady Rosamund, what a pleasure to see you this morning," Elsie greeted with a smile, extending her hand. "I apologize that I did not receive you properly, but Charles and I hadn't quite gotten ready for the day yet."

Rosamund smiled tightly, then nodded. "They have brought me tea," she said.

"They are laying out breakfast in the breakfast room," Elsie commented. "Will you join me? Charles is taking a tray upstairs, so it will just be us…"

"And the servants," Rosamund pointed out.

Elsie looked around at Braeburn, the footmen, and so on, in the room with them. "Could you leave Lady Painswick and I for a few minutes, gentlemen?" she said pointedly.

"M'lady –" Braeburn began.

She silenced him. "Mr. Braeburn, I should hate to have to begin dismissing staff," she said. It was a hollow threat, but she made it anyway. The servants left, and she faced Rosamund head-on. "Please feel free to speak plainly."

Rosamund looked uncomfortable, then said, "I was not there last evening, but I must lend you my support or condemnation as one of the family. Mama and I spoke this morning, early; she was agitated and upset with the way that my nieces acted toward you, and I assured her – once I had gotten over the shock – that I would come speak to you." She smiled just a little. "I am old-fashioned in some ways, and in others, I am quite modern. I am very pleased for you, Mrs. Hu-Carson, in your new-found happiness, and your new position. I am also quite ashamed of Mary for treating you as nothing more than a commoner with no rights and no place in our circle of society, when you have every right in the world to be a part of it. I have been fond of you since you came to the Abbey, and it pains me that Robert's girls would treat you so."

"They were in shock," Elsie dismissed. "Believe me, I feel like I'm living in a perpetual state of shock at the moment. I'm half-expecting to wake up in my bed at the big house, pinching myself and wishing that Mr. Carson would wake up and ask me to marry him." She blushed a little. "I… I don't know. It will take everyone some adjustment time. And, in the meanwhile, you and the others cannot allow Lady Mary and Lady Edith's responses to trouble you, especially when they are directed to me. But I will send you back home with a message that all are welcome to visit for tea or shopping or… just to say hello."

"I will pass that on," Rosamund agreed. "Now… breakfast, you say? I've been up with Mama since five, so I think that would be lovely. And we can talk about your wardrobe."

Elsie rolled her eyes a bit and sighed. "Oh, yes, all right…"

* * *

By teatime, Charles was anxious and antsy. He'd gone to the British Museum because Lady Painswick had all but dragged his wife out the door to go shopping. After luncheon with no sense of confidence about his wife's return, he'd gone out. At teatime, she still hadn't come back, so now he was getting very worried indeed.

It was almost seven when she finally came back. The pile of boxes in the foyer pointed to it, but she herself had disappeared. "Mr. Carson, you're looking for Lady Dunne?" Braeburn asked with the vaguest hint of a smile. Charles wanted to wipe it right off of his face, smarmy git.

"Yes, I am –"

"She's gone out to the garden."

Charles frowned. "At this time of the day? What on earth is she thinking?" He huffed and stormed toward the back door. He had no idea what his wife was thinking; the temperature had dropped during the day with an impending rainstorm on the horizon, and now she was off gallivanting outside in the dark?

He found her standing on the steps, just looking out into the darkness. "Love?" he said softly, putting his arm around her waist.

She startled, but then relaxed into his arms. "I should change," Elsie murmured. "Anwen, Elisabeth, and Gerald will be here at eight for dinner."

He raised an eyebrow. "They will?"

"They met Lady Rosamund and I while we were shopping," Elsie admitted. "I couldn't not invite them this evening, could I? My own family –"

He leaned in and gave her a gentle kiss. "I love you."

"I wish you were Anwen's father," she said very quietly. "I wish we'd given up Downton and married and had our own family. Instead, this is what I've given you –"

"You've given me everything," Charles said as the first raindrops began to fall. "I've got you, haven't I?"

She smiled, her eyes filled with tears, and she kissed him back for all she was worth – as the sky opened and the heavens poured down. Giggling madly, they ran inside and headed straight for the stairs. It took a bit to get undressed from their sodden clothes, and a while to get redressed, but it was worth it for the stolen kisses and caresses.

He thought himself rather smart in the new white tie eveningwear she had bought him, but she was breathtaking in a green silk gown with golden lace trim and bright floral embroidery: his Elsie was every bit the lady as she fastidiously curled and pinned her hair. She added a couple of necklaces and some elbow-length champagne satin gloves, and turned to smile at him. "Do I pass muster?" she inquired.

He smiled and said, "If you did not, I would not allow you to leave the room, m'lady."

Elsie chuckled and came over to give him a kiss. "They'll be here by now," she said softly. "Shall we go down?"

Dinner was subdued, but Charles didn't mind it after the excitement of the last few days. Plans were made and discussed for Anwen's future, and he surprised himself – and his wife – by saying, "Of course, you could always come to stay with us, Anwen." Elsie just sat there, blinking at him. "If your mother is not opposed, of course –"

"I'm absolutely not opposed," Elsie said, her tone firm. "But, yes, you should come see us at least once when we're settled. Until then, I think Lizzie might need you more."

"I've only got two months left," Elisabeth said with a small smile. "We're hoping for a girl," she added. "Just to upset Gerald's mother."

Gerald smirked a little at Charles's raised eyebrow. "The succession is the least of my concerns," he said dismissively. "Keeping my darling Lizzie happy is far more important."

Anwen spoke up and said, "I do believe I'll be going to Inverness for a while, Mama, if only because Lizzie needs me… and I wouldn't want to encroach on you and Mr. Carson's happiness right now."

Elsie's face didn't change from the pleasant smile she graced, but her eyes spoke of hurt and sadness. "Of course," she said softly, "I understand. But we would be most happy if you would consider visiting –"

"Oh, I will visit," Anwen assured her. "But in my own time."

After that conversation, the party began to break up. They left with promises to see one another at Gregory's for dinner the following evening, as a final preparation for the wedding. And then Elsie abandoned Charles and went upstairs.

He waited a few minutes, then followed her. He found her in her sitting room, looking into the mirror on her vanity and frowning. "My love, what's wrong?" Charles asked softly, afraid of the answer.

"Nothing," she denied. "I'm just tired after this long day." She was already in her nightgown and dressing gown – frivolous, gorgeous – and she looked as tired as maybe she felt. "I bought you new pajamas, love," Elsie murmured, getting up and brushing past him on her way into the bedroom.

He caught her hand, pulled her back to him, and just held her. "It will all be fine," he promised in a tender whisper. "Just give it some time."

Later, as he held her close, he admitted to himself that he should have seen it coming. She was always at her most amorous, her most desperate and vicious, when she was upset. As if she wanted reassuring that there was still something good in the world. She had come at him like a wildwoman and their lovemaking had been borderline obscene – he'd never thought that Elsie hid such dark desires from him. But now in the calm of their afterglow, he realized that she'd merely needed some form of release.

He just hoped that no one had heard them.

END PART EIGHTEEN


	19. Chapter 19

Nineteen:  
Whirlwind

Kissing in the back seat of a car was very undignified; or at least so Charles had said. That didn't keep him from stroking Elsie's leg or admiring the way her diamond haircomb caught the light. The comb had been a gift from the Duchess of Harper upon the happy news of inheritance – it had apparently been a wedding gift from Elsie's grandmother many years before. Elsie wondered briefly if life would continue like this: it had been endless parties and visits for tea and chats with people since His Majesty had announced her succession to the title. She had barely been able to get away on Wednesday to see her family at all.

Thursday, tonight, they had been invited (or rather, she had – and she had secured a spot for Charles) to partake of the opera, sitting in the royal box with the Prince of Wales. The poor chap had looked about as pleased as one could for being absolutely dismayed that his parents were forcing him to do such a thing. At one point, Elsie had leaned over and murmured, "If you wish to go, Your Highness, I will not hold it against you."

"Maybe you wouldn't," he said, "but my parents certainly would."

She had smiled and left it at that.

And now she and Charles were on their way home; he was chuffed that they had gotten such an important invitation. She was not. She just wanted to get home and go to bed so she wouldn't look a mess in the morning when they had to get ready for Gregory's wedding. But, of course, Charles wouldn't shut up about their encounter with the Prince.

"My love," Elsie sighed softly, "I was there. You don't have to tell me what happened."

"But, my dearest, we _**met**__ the Prince of Wales_…"

"Aye, we did," she murmured, "and it was all great fun, but now I am tired and want to go home and go to bed. Tomorrow is a huge day…"

"Are you inferring that I'm causing you an issue by –"

She chose that moment to turn and kiss him like there was no tomorrow in sight. And when they came up for air, she breathed, "No, but I did a damn good job of shutting you up."

He was blushing and smiling, his heart laid out on his sleeve. "You did," he agreed softly, giving her another, less intensely passionate, kiss.

And snogging in the back of a car was certainly less than dignified, but she wasn't about to tell him to stop it. He squeezed her thigh and she moaned softly, blissfully happy with him being there. "I love you," she breathed against his lips, into his mouth. "I love you so much…"

"It is very undignified to kiss in the back of a car," he teased softly, continuing to do just that – kiss her, caress her, make her feel like she was the most important part of his world.

He wasn't exactly complaining about the new things she was buying him, either. The gold pocket watch went over especially well; he had beamed about it all day. She just wanted him to be happy, to feel loved.

By the time they finally fell asleep that night, they were both feeling very well-loved indeed.

* * *

Anwen helped Elisabeth get dressed – the buttons were too difficult and badly placed in the center of her back so she couldn't even reach – and carefully styled her daughter's hair. "There," she murmured. "You look perfect, love."

Elisabeth smiled up at her mother and said, "I've missed this."

"And I've missed you," Anwen said softly. "How is our little one today?"

"Very active," Elisabeth replied, yawning. "Hopefully, the bairn will settle down in church. Are we meeting grandmama and Charles there?"

Anwen paused for a long moment and sighed. "I don't know. We hadn't really firmed the plans, so I assume so."

Elisabeth got up and walked around, holding her back and hips. "Are you going to tell her, then, why you're coming to Inverness? Or are you just going to shut her out?"

"She shouldn't be associated with me… not now," Anwen said very quietly.

"Oh, for the love of – she's a bastard herself. I think she understands!"

"She's a bastard… a bastard with money," Anwen snapped. "With money and a title and –"

"You're a lady," Elisabeth grunted, "though you refuse to act like one. I'm sure there's some bloody man we can throw you at and get you married off to who isn't a complete waste of air like –"

"God, please, stop," Anwen begged. "It's bad enough that we're fighting – I can't stand the thought of losing my mam now…"

"You wouldn't lose her – she might just understand," Elisabeth argued.

And therein lay the rub: Anwen couldn't even be honest with herself about why she couldn't go with Elsie. Let alone be honest with anyone else. It still hurt, down deep, that Elsie had given her away to those horrible, awful people who had not only hurt her, but her children as well. She didn't know if she had it in her to forgive.

She certainly couldn't forget.

And now, here Elsie was, flaunting her new marriage and taking society by storm, and it just made Anwen sick with jealousy that her own mother couldn't spare her the time of day.

"No," Anwen said, feeling a clench of certainty in her stomach. "She would never understand." She gently rubbed her daughter's belly, being rewarded with several strong kicks from her grandchild. "My goodness, you're a feisty one today –"

The idea of living with her daughter and helping to raise the child was not so repugnant as all that…

* * *

Lady Mary hesitated. She had said some hateful, unwarranted things to Mrs. Hughes – Mrs. Carson – the Marchioness of Dunne – and she knew that anything that she was to say now might not be heard. Especially since they had never really gotten on.

And why was it that they had never really gotten on? Mary sighed inwardly, feeling quite the fool for admitting that she'd had such a schoolgirl crush on Carson since she was but a tiny girl with pigtails and patent mary janes with black cotton stockings beneath her white dresses. She had always been jealous of the way that Carson treated Mrs. Hughes; as if he was already married and in love with her. It wasn't fair to be cruel to a child, was it? Nevermind the fact that she would never have been able to marry him or make him fall in love with her to begin with… the fact of the matter was that she still loved him, and it made her ache with jealous fury that he did not feel the same way. Even now, as an adult, she wanted him to care for her the way she had always adored him… and he had chosen Mrs. Hughes. Why in god's name had he chosen the Scottish harpy? She had no redeeming qualities – she had always been such a, god forbid she use the word in public, bitch to Mary.

A little niggling voice in the back of her head said that maybe Mary had been the source of Mrs. Hughes's irritation. Mary didn't want to listen to that little voice.

She wanted Carson to still be Carson, and still care for her as he had always done.

That was why she was going to apologize.

Not because she cared a whit about what Mrs. Hughes wanted; but because she wanted her beloved Carson to be happy.

So she sat with her family, watching as the pews filled. Carson and Mrs. Hughes hadn't arrived yet, so she had the benefit of being able to look around at the clothes and jewelry that people were wearing. So many people resisted the new fashions, even now, so the church looked like it was filled with a throwback to her Granny's era. The bride's side of the church was very sparse: that tended to happen when your family was killed in the throes of revolution and war. The groom's side was much fuller.

Lady McCabe and Sir Gerald and Lady Elisabeth arrived, taking their reserved place at the head of the groom's side. And still no sign of Carson and Mrs. Hughes.

Mary did not want to apologize for the sake of apology: she wanted to prove to them that she was not so spoiled and selfish as they believed. She wanted what was best for Carson –

Who was looking quite dapper in a grey morning suit with Mrs. Hughes on his arm in a lovely ivory dress with a blue floral pattern. Mary wanted to hate her; she could not. Not when she saw the brilliant smile on Carson's face.

Maybe the better woman had won?

"Excuse me a moment," Mary said, getting up and taking her clutch with her. "Lady Elisabeth – Mrs. Carson – may I speak with you a moment, please?"

Mrs. Hughes and Carson paused. "Lady Mary, I don't think that's a good idea," Carson warned. "The wedding will start in a few minutes and there shouldn't be a scene."

"I just wanted to apologize," Mary said, ignoring him. "I was wrong; very, unconscionably wrong. And I am sorry for it. That is all I wanted to say." She smiled sadly at Mrs. Hughes, then turned to return to her seat.

Mrs. Hughes waited until Mary was only a few steps away from her pew before she took a step forward. "Lady Mary," she called softly. Mary doubled back, only to be met with a gentle hug from Mrs. Hughes. "I am sorry, as well," she whispered.

"You did nothing wrong," Mary assured her. "The fault was all mine. I guess… I couldn't see past my own stupidity to realize that this would be a bigger adjustment for you than anything else. I am sorry." She paused, then smiled. "How are you and Carson getting on, then?"

Mrs. Hughes smiled, and in that moment, she looked twenty years younger. "We are very happy together," she said softly. "You should come by – bring Mr. Branson and Sybbie and George. The house doesn't feel like a home yet."

Mary knew an olive branch when she saw one. Mrs. Hughes was offering her peace, redemption.

She nodded and smiled. "Will tomorrow be good?" she said softly.

"Aye," Mrs. Hughes agreed. "Aye, lass."

* * *

The wedding went off without a hitch. The reception was simple and elegant. Everything was the way it was meant to be. Elsie sighed with contentment as she watched her grandson and his bride dancing around the room, giddy as children. He was best pleased that she and Charles were there, in a place of honor, as his grandparents. She was blissfully happy to be there, to be accepted…

Anwen came up beside them and said, "You've made Greg very happy. Thank you."

Elsie smiled up at her and said, "Will you not reconsider coming to Dunne with us?"

Anwen shook her head and smiled sadly. "You have too many things to settle into to worry about me. After Lizzie's had the baby and is feeling a bit more steady, I'll come visit."

"You're always welcome, my darling," Elsie said softly, reaching over and taking her daughter's hand. "You are always welcome in my home, in my life, in my heart. You've never been that far away from it. I wish for you all the joy and happiness that you bring me, just knowing that you're alive." She smiled sadly, wishing that her daughter knew just how much she was loved.

"You say that," Anwen murmured, "but I don't know if it's true or not."

"Of course it's true," Elsie said, feeling suddenly hurt like she'd been slapped. "I never have wished you ill – not ever. I love you, Anwen Rebecca Hughes. I've loved you from the moment you were born, and I've only ever wanted the best for you. How can you think otherwise?"

"You left me with _them_," Anwen said, as if it would explain everything.

"I didn't know," Elsie said very quietly. "If I had, I would never have left you with them. I never wanted anything to happen to you. You are my child, and even if I couldn't raise you… I thought I'd helped you. I thought –" She was on the verge of tears, sick to her stomach and scared to death that she was going to lose her beautiful daughter. "I was wrong, Anwen – I was wrong and I admit it. I should have… I should have tried harder for you, and I didn't. But don't you ever think I did not love you."

"Love isn't enough," Anwen whispered.

"Then let me try to be enough," Elsie breathed. "Please. _Please_."

"I need time," Anwen said, pulling her hand away from her mother's. "Please give me that, Mama."

Elsie watched helplessly as her daughter melted back into the crowd and disappeared. Charles put his arm around his wife's waist and leaned in to say, "Rome was not built in a day, love."

"No," she croaked weakly, "it was not."

"Come," he said, getting up and extending his hand to her. "Let's dance before everyone begins to wonder why we're even here."

They danced and danced, finding comfort, solace, in one another's embrace. She felt just as broken as she always had, but he was the glue that mended her, held her shattered pieces back together. And she loved him so very, very much.

* * *

The next week flew by, an endless round of parties and teas and social calls. By the time Elsie and Charles boarded the train northbound to Glasgow, he was beyond exhausted. He really didn't know how the Crawleys did it day after day, night after night, for years on end. He'd had less than two weeks of the full rigamarole and he was drooping.

Even Elsie was looking haggard. She was upset by the situation with Anwen, but she wouldn't talk about it. He knew that, no matter what, it would work out as it was meant to, but in the meanwhile, she was throwing herself into whatever social situation she needed to throw herself into, ignoring everything but pleasing others.

They made love late at night, taking out the frustrations of the day in increasingly erotic ways, and at dawn, when the first rays of sunlight came trickling in the windows. He loved her and he wanted her to be happy… and clearly, she was not. So he followed her lead on a steep curve of desire and lust, doing his damnedest to make her happy.

The train ride seemed endless. In Glasgow, they spent the night in a hotel before continuing to the north on yet another train. By the time they reached Dunne, Charles was wondering if he could pretend that the whole trip had never happened. They had barely spoken two words to one another that were not explicitly erotic – and those had been shared in the privacy of their hotel room.

"My love," he began, trying to get her attention. "I just want you to know that I love you."

She smiled just a little, just a hint, and murmured, "I love you, too, Charles."

It was enough; it was not enough. Nothing was ever enough.

He didn't know how to fill the Anwen-shaped hole in his wife's heart; he knew he never could.

He only prayed that they came to an understanding before something dreadful happened.

END PART NINETEEN


	20. Chapter 20

Twenty:  
Penance

Elsie had always been terrified of horses, ever since their old mare had trampled her when she was very small. She'd escaped with no broken bones and only minor cuts and bruises, but the fear was still there. It had always been there. So she shocked herself, even, by insisting on going to Dunne Stables and inspecting her father's livelihood. She shocked herself even more by insisting on learning to ride.

Once she felt steadier, she and Charles rode about the countryside, enjoying the view and the ability to get away from it all. She felt so much more herself when they weren't at the enormous mansion, as if all of her troubles could not follow her.

Her great-granddaughter, Rosemarie Ruth, was born and christened and still Anwen had not come to visit. Their conversations on the telephone were strained, but manageable. Elsie didn't want to push her, but felt she might not have a choice. It wasn't as if they were getting any younger, after all.

Gregory called one day to announce that he and Irina were going to be parents; and Elsie wondered if this was it… was this everything in her life, distilled down to such simplicity? Birth and death, both ever-present, both holding on with tight grasps. And in the middle, there was such life…

It was a cold, rainy day in March when she got the call. The Dowager Countess of Grantham had passed away in the night. An era was truly over, then. Charles didn't take it well. He took Caesar, his stallion, out onto the trail, and she was truly frightened as the storm got worse. It wouldn't do for him to go out and get sick, or worse, killed. After three hours, she had them saddle up Lady Belle and she took off in the direction he'd gone.

She found him in an abandoned sod hut partially up the crag – the biggest not-quite mountain around – and he was cold and looked much the worse for wear. She probably didn't look much better – but at least they were together. "You stupid, stupid man," Elsie sobbed, falling into his embrace. "Don't ever do that to me again – I couldn't bear it if you were to die…"

He just held her, not saying a word. The wind and rain battered the hut, but she was quite content to be here with him as long as he needed her to be.

As soon as the rain let up, they made their way back to Dunnesmore; they were met by a frantic search and rescue party in the parkland, and Charles deftly explained that he'd taken a wrong turn and it was only by chance that Elsie had found him at all. His little white lie meant that the place where they had loved, lived, and healed the day before went undiscovered by the others. It meant that they had somewhere to go to get away together.

She had given up hope of reconciling with Anwen. She had admitted such as they had cuddled in the darkness of the hut, sharing love and warmth. He had listened, supported her, loved her… and he had wept such salty, bitter tears over Lady Violet, confessing so many times he had been saved by her, touched by the kindness she had rarely shown the outside world. Together, they could face this; apart, they could not.

Two days later, Anwen turned up on their doorstep out of nowhere, packed lightly as if she hadn't known she was coming until she'd made the decision to do it at all. Braeburn let her in, sent Mrs. Umbridge up to fetch Elsie from the drawing room where she'd been in a meeting with Mr. Wallace about selling the houses in Glasgow and Edinburgh (it just seemed so wasteful to keep them up and open year-round, just in case they felt like getting away when they could just as easily stay in a hotel).

Elsie came running down the hall and threw her arms around her daughter, tears in her eyes. "My god, I love you," she whispered. "I am so sorry –"

Anwen held her tight and whispered back, "Me, too, Mama."

All would be well again. It had to be.

* * *

It had taken months of soul-searching, self-reflection, and doubts that could not be assuaged for Anwen to come to a conclusion about her mother. And that conclusion had been, very simply, that she had been the reason behind at least some of the smiles her mother had shared over the years. Clearly, Charles was the other reason, but it felt odd to include her step-father in the things that made her mother happy.

Getting on a train south to Dunne had been a spur-of-the-moment idea, like a flicker of a spark that could not be put out. She'd barely told Lizzie of her plans before she was on her way to the station, trusting that her mother's welcome would still be open to her. Her self-assurance and calm vanished into thin air the further from Inverness she got; she wrung her hands and spoke inwardly to herself to try to calm her heart.

She contracted with a man in the village for a ride to Dunnesmore – he was taking a delivery of eggs, milk, and butter – and she rode in the back of the truck like a farm girl. He didn't know any better and dropped her – and the grocery delivery – at the servants' entrance. He probably thought she was the new head housemaid or Her Ladyship's new lady's maid. She could have been… if she'd thought more quickly, if she'd not been so stupid and pig-headedly stubborn.

She knew that her mother was just as stubborn; hence their impasse.

"And who might you be?" the butler inquired icily.

"I just caught a ride with Mr. Brooks from the station," Anwen tried to explain breathlessly as she helped haul in the last of the milk pails. "I'm actually here to see my mother."

The butler's eyebrow raised. "And who might your mother be?"

Anwen set down her pail and drew herself up to her full height – which was not very much taller than her mother, alas! – and said, "My mother is the Marchioness. And I am certain she will be overjoyed to see me." The haughty tone fell away from her voice and she added, "I am Lady Anwen McCabe, if you must formally announce me."

"I will accompany you to the foyer," the butler said, "so there is no confusion and it appears you entered through the front door. I am Braeburn, the butler of Dunnesmore; if there is anything you need at all during your stay, m'lady, you will speak to Mrs. Umbridge or myself – you are not traveling with a maid?"

"I… haven't got one at the moment," Anwen replied.

"Then we shall supply you with one," Braeburn said with a hint of disapproval. "Mrs. Umbridge, will you send Dahlia up to the Princess Suite with Lady McCabe's things? Dahlia is our head housemaid. She will also dress you, m'lady."

"You needn't go to any trouble," Anwen assured him, smiling a little. "I'm only here for a couple of days, then I'll be returning to Inverness."

Braeburn gave her another glare of disapproval, then gestured for her to follow him. They went through the servants' corridors and out into the main foyer. "Mrs. Umbridge will go fetch Her Ladyship," he explained. "She is in a meeting with Mr. Wallace."

"And Mr. Carson?" Anwen inquired.

The look on Braeburn's face was unreadable. "Mr. Carson is out meeting with the groundskeeper," he said.

She waited a moment, then said, "I know this is inappropriate of me to ask, but are they happy? Together, I mean? They were so much at Downton, and I'd hate to think that they aren't now, when all of their dreams have fallen into their laps."

Braeburn hesitated for just a beat, then said, "M'lady, they are very happy." The staunchly starched butler's façade began to crack a little around the edges. "It has been a long time since this house has seen such happiness," he admitted very quietly.

"Thank you for that," Anwen replied with a smile.

Suddenly, she heard the clatter of Elsie's heels on the polished marble floor, urgent, racing, and her mother's emphatic words, "My god, I love you!" And then Anwen was caught up in Elsie's tight embrace, tears falling from both their eyes. "I am so sorry –"

And after the months of doubt, uncertainty, fear, Anwen found herself saying, "Me, too, Mama."

* * *

Charles finished with the groundskeeper and headed back to the main house. After settling in here, he had rather enjoyed the notion of playing Lord of the Manor, even if he wasn't so much in name or title. Elsie allowed him an almost free reign within the confines of Dunnesmore's little kingdom, and he was only too glad to make small decisions in her name. The only time he felt it necessary to go to her was in the case of requiring money or permissions, and then she would just smile kindly and listen intently until he had presented his case to her. Only after he had explained all sides of the matter would she consent or deny her support.

For her part, she was rising every bit to the challenge of being a Lady of great standing. Although a tad reclusive – they had only entertained seven parties since their arrival – she was a generous host and their guests wanted for nothing. He was quite pleased that their joint household experience had put them into a place of knowledge and care.

Their marriage was a true partnership; they had not argued over anything but trivial matters and whether or not she should go after Anwen. He was firmly in the camp of 'wait for the child to decide', while Elsie was far more sentimental in regard to her daughter. The end result of their arguments on this score was usually a postponement of a verdict, for they were too busy tearing off their clothes and meeting one another in the throes of passion to think clearly.

He had discovered that she liked her wrists to be bound when she was upset; she had discovered that if she begged him in Gaelic, he would do anything she asked. His wife, his dear, darling lady wife, pleaded with him for release like a sinner serving penance for her actions; he merely gave her the pleasure she sought because it gave him great joy to do so. (Not to mention the fact that being inside her was still the single most exhilarating thrill he had ever experienced in his life.)

But the air about today was different. She had been tired, irritable when she'd gone into her meeting with Mr. Wallace, which is why he'd gone out to discuss the wildlife with the groundskeeper – and the fact that the rabbits were eating his wife's crocuses. He hadn't wanted to upset her further, so he had gotten out of the way as soon as breakfast was completed.

Going back inside via the south wing entrance, he watched the maids hustle out of the way, attempting to remain unseen as they cleaned the trophy room and the armory. It was an old house, ancient really, dating back to 1468, and it held secrets that even Charles could not discover. But he was definitely on the path to trying! And it excited him greatly every time he discovered something new, be it a piece of artwork or a room he'd never visited before, and could share it with his darling Elsie.

He met Mrs. Umbridge in the corridor and she smiled. "Mr. Carson, welcome back – I'll have a tea tray readied and brought up for you in the smoking room."

"Where is my wife?" he inquired. "I have need to speak to her about her precious crocuses."

Mrs. Umbridge held back a laugh; he was pleased that the servants felt at ease with them now, that they felt that the house would run well as a team, regardless of whether or not Elsie was up on a ladder, dusting the chandeliers when she got frustrated. "She is in the sitting room with Mr. Wallace and Lady McCabe, Mr. Carson."

He barely registered that, then suddenly it hit him. "Lady McCabe is here?" he said, voice rising. "And no one thought to fetch me?"

"She's only just arrived, Mr. Carson, and she's taking tea with Her Ladyship and Mr. Wallace now," Mrs. Umbridge assured him. "We've put her luggage into the Princess Suite, but she is traveling lightly and I believe she means to return home within a few days."

"But the fact that she's here at all is a testament to –" Charles cut himself off and smiled. "If you could send another pot of tea up and some gingersnaps, I would be grateful, Mrs. Umbridge."

"Of course, Mr. Carson," Mrs. Umbridge said, still smiling at him. She was cheeky about the amount of desserts and snacks he ate; he found he didn't mind her good-natured teasing, as long as Elsie wasn't jealous of it. And she wasn't – she often added her tuppence to the conversations and left him red in the face and stuffing another biscuit into his mouth.

He hurried to the sitting room, where Mr. Wallace was packing up his papers to take leave. "Mr. Wallace, I hope the meeting has been productive," Charles greeted, holding out his hand for a firm shake.

"I will be making the arrangements as soon as possible," Wallace said with a nod. "I understand that you've been out on the grounds this morning –"

"Yes, speaking to the groundskeeper about the rabbits," Charles said with a roll of the eyes. He glanced over at Elsie. "Your crocuses will be safe soon," he promised.

"Hopefully before they're gone for the bloody season," she muttered in reply.

Anwen stifled a laugh and lifted her teacup to her lips.

"I'm glad you've decided to join us, Anwen," Charles said, "even if your stay is to be brief." He helped Wallace finish putting away his papers and showed the gentleman out.

"Just because I didn't pack heavily doesn't mean I cannot stay for a time," Anwen pointed out in her gentle cadence. "I didn't put much thought into what I was doing; just hopped on a train at dawn."

"Well," Elsie said, "I, for one, am glad that you did."

Once the door was closed, Charles came back over to the ladies and gave Anwen a gentle embrace. "I am glad as well," he said. "You're looking well, my dear."

"I've been better," Anwen said with a sad smile. "Rosemarie has had colic; I nearly went out of my head from the screaming. Poor lass."

"And you just left her there with Lizzie?" Elsie asked, aghast. "That poor girl –"

Anwen sighed. "They've got a new nanny in; it's not as if I wasn't planning on going south to London soon for Irina's delivery, anyway…"

Elsie sighed. "Yes, but abandoning Lizzie in her hour of need –"

"Bloody hell, you'd think that she was the only one with ears and a temper the way you're going on," Anwen snorted. "I needed to get away for a few days, collect my thoughts. And such."

"We are very glad to have you," Charles repeated himself as he sank onto the settee and poured himself a cup of tea. Despite propriety, he had convinced Braeburn that he was perfectly capable of serving tea to his own family, and as such, the butler generally left them alone when they had a pot at the ready. "How was the journey?"

"Not bad," Anwen said. "It's about two hours."

"Not bad at all," Elsie murmured. She glanced over at Charles. "Could you see if they would mind adding a chocolate soufflé for dessert this evening, as it is our Anwen's favorite? I know Mrs. Andrews is far more receptive to changes if you request them than if I do… I think she has a sweet spot for you, Charles."

He was well-trained; he did not shudder, though he desperately wanted to. He did not, however, want Mrs. Andrews to have a sweet spot, or really, anything, for him. The woman was a terror. A holy terror that made Mrs. Patmore look positively cuddly. "I will see," he muttered. "Maybe tomorrow, if not tonight."

"I would like that," Anwen said. There was a beat and she hesitantly added, "Papa."

His heart swelled and he fought to keep a soppy grin off of his lips. "Anwen, you are not required to –"

She held up a hand. "You're the closest thing to a father that I have," Anwen murmured. "And I would be grateful if you'd allow me the liberty of calling you such."

He paused, looking over at Elsie, who was looking very nervous – as if he would deny her daughter that small wish. "I would be honored to be your father, my dear," Charles said as Braeburn came in with a fresh tea tray and a plate piled high with biscuits. "Would you care to take a turn round the gardens later? Your mother has a meeting with the chairman of the Ladies' Society after luncheon, I'm afraid."

"It's lovely weather today," Elsie said softly. "Maybe you two could go riding?"

"I'd like that," Anwen said, smiling.

He could see so much of Elsie in her daughter that his heart clenched. They were both far too stubborn for their own good, too beautiful to be ignored, and entirely too kind. He loved the daughter with the reservations of a father, not unreservedly as he did her mother.

He could only pray that they treated each other with kindness.

* * *

Elsie couldn't sleep; Charles was snoring like a freight train, but she couldn't even get comfortable enough to nod off. Even after a very enthusiastic round of lovemaking, she'd not been able to doze. She wasn't sure if it was because she was emotional over Anwen's visit… or if it was because she'd been bored out of her wits all day between Mr. Wallace and the Ladies' Society. She didn't want to be the patron saint of garden parties, after all – she just wanted the bloody rabbits to stay out of her flowers.

Another hour went by before she finally acknowledged that there was no way she was going to sleep. So she got up and donned her very sedate nightdress, knickers, dressing gown, and slippers, and slipped out of her room and down the corridor.

They had two night watchmen; one inside and one outside. With any luck, she would avoid them both. There had been a couple of times early in her tenure when she'd come down for a spot of warm milk in the middle of the night and had startled the indoor watchman very badly. He patrolled, looking for servants who weren't where they were meant to be, of things out of place, of signs of fire or illness or anything else amiss. The last thing he needed was to be given a heart attack by the lady of the house.

She crept down to the kitchen and checked the stove to make sure the oven was still lit. She felt a sizzle as her finger barely graced the surface, and she winced. The scullery maid was good, feeding the fire before she went to bed for the night.

Elsie pottered around, deciding that warm milk wasn't going to help her at all. It didn't keep her from putting a pot of cream on to warm, though, nor securing some of the good chocolate that Mrs. Andrews kept in the cupboard for treats for the kitchen staff. She would give Mrs. Andrews money in the morning to go into the village and get more. She hummed softly to herself as she searched for the sugar; she wanted sweet, frothy hot chocolate.

She heard footsteps coming down the corridor, then Mr. Grey, the watchman, poked his head in the door. "M'lady? Is anything amiss?"

"No, Mr. Grey, I just couldn't sleep," Elsie sighed. "So I thought I'd get up and make something to drink and retire to the library."

"Lady McCabe was in the library a few minutes ago," Mr. Grey said. "I think she meant to finish what she was reading and then come down for some tea."

Elsie squinted at the clock. "At three in the morning?" she muttered. "I thought I was the only irresponsible reprobate in the house."

"Hardly, m'lady," Mr. Grey said in amusement. "Mr. Carson often comes down for a dram if he cannot sleep and you're asleep."

"Oh, well," Elsie sighed, "that's me put in my place, then." She pursed her lips together, then said, "I don't suppose you'd mind finding Lady McCabe and telling her that I'll have some hot chocolate ready in a few minutes?"

"Of course not, m'lady – everything is very quiet tonight, aside from you two being up."

Elsie nodded. "Good – after last week when you caught Jane and the hallboy in the Green Room in the altogether, I'd say we need some peace and quiet," she joked lamely. "Well, get on w'ye."

It was about ten minutes before Anwen came down to the kitchen. By then, Elsie had finished preparing the chocolate and had pulled out some of the leftover biscuits. "I would have thought you'd be in bed by now, Mama," Anwen said softly, pulling up a chair.

"I could say the same about you," Elsie replied. "I couldn't sleep."

"I don't go to bed till about four," Anwen said wearily. "I stay up with Rosemarie so the others can sleep a bit." She gratefully took the mug of hot chocolate from Elsie's grasp. "This is lovely; thank you, Mama."

"My pleasure," Elsie replied softly. "Did Mr. Grey startle you when he was doing his rounds?"

"Oh, no… I'm fine," Anwen assured her gently. "I just… I feel like I'm taking up entirely too much of your time, Mama."

"Nonsense!" Elsie replied. "If anyone is deserving of taking up my time, love, it's you." She reached over and held her daughter's hand. "I'm sorry if I've not made that clear."

Anwen smiled a little and took a sip of her hot chocolate. "Mama… you could have made a go of it and tried to raise me."

Elsie frowned. "No," she said quietly, "I couldn't have. I really couldn't have. Not when Becky went unhinged – every spare penny I made went into caring for her. I was a pauper, Anwen. This – everything around you – is a miracle. It's a miracle and it allows me to do so much that I couldn't before."

"Such as…?"

"Such as, your Aunt Becky's care has been paid for until 1940," Elsie said. "And your granddaughter has a trust in her name. The village schools have been funded indefinitely. Need I go on?"

"And what about you and Papa?"

Elsie smiled and nibbled on a biscuit delicately. "We are quite happy, Anwen. Together. The most important part is that we're together."

"And now I'm here and standing in the way of that," Anwen sighed. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interfere –"

"Don't you dare be ridiculous," Elsie huffed. "We are more than glad that you're here. Charles has been holding me back for months; I wanted to go to Inverness and talk to you, but he wouldn't let me. He said you needed time to work through whatever is going on in your head and I… I… didn't want to listen."

"But you see, it's always been… I've always been standing between you and being happy."

Elsie watched Anwen for a long moment, then exhaled. It was very clear that her daughter thought that, had always thought that, but it just wasn't true. The only thing standing between Elsie and happiness was her unhappiness, her depression, her mindless slavery to a system that she could not outwit.

"No," Elsie said very softly, "you have not stood between me and my happiness, love. Never." She reached over and held her daughter's hand. "I am so sorry that I've caused you such pain in your life, my sweet girl, and I will spend the rest of my life atoning for it – if only you will let me."

Anwen inhaled deeply, then nodded. "All right," she whispered. "All right, Mama."

They finished their snack in silence, merely content to be together. Elsie walked her daughter up to her room and was mildly surprised when Anwen pulled her inside with her. It took a few minutes to lull her daughter to sleep with lullabies in Gaelic, but she knew that they would soothe her like they had when she was but a tiny bairn in arms. Elsie curled up in bed with her daughter, holding her tightly, protecting her from the world.

She had been a poor excuse for a mother: it would change now. All that would change.

END PART TWENTY


	21. Chapter 21

_**Author's note: **_**I haven't abandoned the story! I've just been moving house and trying to settle in at my new job and in my new house and... well, on top of all that nightmare, my grandma (my roommate) fell and broke her hip. So I haven't had much brain the last month or so. **

* * *

Twenty-one:  
A Breathless Kind of Hope

What was meant to be two days' stay became three, then four, then before they knew it, a week was upon them. Anwen would go down to the laundry and wash her own clothes, not wanting anyone to go to any trouble, and Elsie would join her, chit-chatting about what they should do for the day. It was nice, it was pleasant, it was easy and somewhat comfortable. Neither pushed the other past the limitations they had already set for one another, and it was good. They were good.

Neither had quite realized the depths of the pain they had caused one another – not really – but they'd managed to find higher ground and work through it. They stumbled along together, taking comfort in the fact that they weren't any worse off without one another; in fact, they were much better together now that they had ceased pitying one another and themselves.

They were far more formidable together than they were apart.

Charles had gone into Glasgow for the day; something about wine and Elsie had tuned out after he'd gushed over and over about a particular vintage he was pleased to have found. Which left her wandering the gardens with Anwen, talking about everything and nothing at all. She was honestly quite pleased that her daughter had stayed as long as she had, but even Elsie knew that it would have to end sometime soon. But until then, she was determined to show Anwen the utmost courtesy and love. It wouldn't do at all to send her away feeling small and unloved. No, best that she be spoiled with a mother's devotion and adoration.

"I've booked a ticket to Aberdeen for next week," Anwen said, taking Elsie's arm as they walked. "Irina is insisting that I come and help arrange the nursery."

Elsie sighed and murmured, "I've enjoyed having you here…"

"Mama," Anwen said after a long pause, "you do know that you are welcome to come with me, don't you? My children would no sooner turn you out than they would me."

"I know," Elsie said with a frown, "but my place is here, ensuring that the estate prospers. The Stables need constant overview; there is always paperwork."

"You and Charles have become quite the hermits…"

"I am quite the scandal, you know," Elsie said knowingly. "Why would anyone possibly want to associate with me when I am only the Marchioness because my natural father was, well, natural is anyone's guess."

"Because the world is not so strictly bound as it was even a few years ago," Anwen said softly, gently. Elsie held her daughter's hand, but still, she could not believe such a thing to be absolute truth. What Charles and her progeny thought was not necessarily what others believed. God knew that the Crawleys sent letters updating them on the house and the Family, but out of some kind of odd obligation to them as former members of staff. Other families wouldn't care; other families would judge them, sniggering behind handkerchiefs and fans, pointing and laughing as subtly as they could as Elsie made one faux pas after another. No, it would be far better to remain hidden away; for everyone involved.

"Yes, but you do not want to be embarrassed by your mam," Elsie murmured. "When we've settled in here and I feel like we can leave, we'll come to stay." It was an empty promise, hollow with no substance to back it up, but it was still a promise made.

"Oh, mama, I hope you will," Anwen said softly. They came to a stop and sat down on one of the many garden benches. "Do you ever wish that your papa had told you before he died?"

Elsie shrugged her shoulders. "Sometimes, but then how far back should I wish he had told me? Because the very last thing I'd want is to wish you away, my dear." She might not be able to deal with the emotional repercussions of having been violated, but she could never wish it not to have happened; Anwen was truly one of the most important pieces of her life, and the idea of her never having existed played painfully in her heart and head.

"Just… long enough for you to know and adjust to the idea. I know you loathe surprises."

"Aye, but there'll be no adjusting," Elsie said with a sigh on her lips. "I've been a servant all these long years, and even now, I am a servant to the estate. It's just different because suddenly, I'm not of a mind to worry where the money for Becky's care will come from, and if I need a new dress or knickers, I won't have to pinch my pence to get them." She paused and smiled. "Someday, this will all be yours."

"Don't you dare talk about dying now," Anwen scolded. "Not when we've just found ourselves on common ground."

Elsie frowned and gave her daughter a kiss on the cheek. "We will find ourselves on much more common ground now you've forgiven me," she said in a gentle tone. "I am sorry."

"It's water under the bridge now," Anwen said with a smile. "Will you and papa be all right without me here?"

Elsie bit back a laugh; of course they would. Hadn't they managed so far when she wasn't there? "Oh, I think we'll manage," she said. "Doctor and Mrs. Clarkson are planning on making a visit next week; I feel rather honored to host them for part of their honeymoon trip." Of all the people they'd left behind in Downton, Isobel Crawley and Dr. Clarkson had been the last two they'd truly thought might come to stay. Lady Mary – the blessed not-so-virginal Mary – had called several times to speak to Charles, but not much else had come of it. But Dr. Clarkson had wanted to return to Scotland on his honeymoon tour with Isobel and so arrangements had been made. They would stay in the King's Suite, and the servants wouldn't even bat an eye as the mistress of the house went about tidying it up for her guests. They were used to her puttering now.

"That's not really what I meant."

"I know it isn't," Elsie murmured. "You need to go live your life just as we must live ours. Your children need you; your grandchildren need you. Charles and I will be fine," she assured Anwen. "And if we aren't, you will be the very first to know."

"I should go on the morning train," Anwen said. "Irina sent a telegram this morning. I feel badly, now, that I've overstayed my welcome here –"

"You will never overstay," Elsie declared firmly. "You are my daughter. There is no more shame between us, I should think. I only stayed away because I thought you wanted time to figure things out and come to terms with what was bothering you –"

"Oh, aye," Anwen replied, "and I am grateful for that. I needed time and space."

Elsie squeezed her daughter's hand and smiled. "And now we're better for the months," she commented happily.

"You will write me, though?"

"Of course! Though why your son keeps a house in Aberdeen rather than elsewhere –"

"My father-in-law," Anwen muttered with a roll of the eyes. "He's quite cantankerous. Makes the Dowager Countess of Grantham look like a teddy bear, he does. So my lad tries to stay away if possible." Elsie nodded and Anwen bit back a noise. "Mama, why are you crying?"

"I'm not-" Elsie began, but then started swiping at her eyes, belying the words. "Fine, I'm just… I've only just gotten you back and now you're off again. I suppose it feels like having you torn away again like before. I don't know."

"I won't be far," Anwen promised softly. "And I will always be your girl, mam."

Yes, she would – forever and ever and always.

END PART TWENTY-ONE


	22. Chapter 22

Twenty-two:  
The Power

Lady Mary Crawley had never been good at admitting when she was wrong. In point of fact, she made it a goal never to be wrong; if you were incorrect in an assumption, you were incorrect in many things… and that would never do for a lady of standing. Admission of such things would never do, even in private.

But she had been ever so incorrect, _**wrong**_ even, in her treatment of Mrs. Hughes _(Mrs. Carson – Lady Dunne… god, what even am I doing now in my head?)_ during such a fragile point in her life. Learning the dirty little secret of her birth and her subsequent inheritance had broken the fragile bridge of truce between them that had been forged after Mary's marriage to Matthew. She still had thought the housekeeper rather uppity in the way she'd assumed certain things in regard to the Family, but in the end, Mrs. Hughes had been correct, as usual – and Mary had been wrong. Just as Mary had been wrong in her treatment of the older woman when she'd discovered such a new life unfolding before her like a precious flower.

Mary Crawley had been _**wrong**_. But now, with Tom at her side and Sybbie and George in tow (without nannies, because the children were quite old enough now for a few days away with their parents), sitting on a train en route to Glasgow, she felt very small. She could only imagine how Lady Elisabeth felt; Mary had probably made her feel just as small, just as self-conscious, with her furious refusal to take the matter seriously.

Mary had been _**wrong**_, and now she was going to apologize. Her previous apology had not been heartfelt; it had been nothing more than words hurtled back at the former housekeeper with an intensity that might have been borne of hurt. And she had smarted, burned, furious and in bitter pain when Carson had taken Lady Elisabeth's side in the matter. What she hadn't understood at the time was that she had been so very, very wrong that Carson had taken the only route that had been left open to him: he had become his wife's rock, her point of calm in the storm of tempest that her life had abruptly become. For that, Mary felt terribly guilty. She had forced him to choose a side, and there should have been nothing at all but a united front.

She should have been a friend, with her unending influence and Machiavellian scheming ways, rather than a foe. She should have taken Lady Elisabeth in hand, under her wing, and shown her all the ways to navigate society without breaking a rather unladylike sweat. But instead, she had been cold, angry, hurtful, and even hateful.

Self-pity and regret was not becoming. Her guilt, her sorrow, had weighed heavy on her heart for the months the Carsons had been away from Downton. Within a week of their leavetaking, she had realized just how horrible she had been, just how much Matthew would have loathed her for what she had done, and she had known that it would be difficult to repair the damage. Just as she had known instinctively that she would have to stay away a while longer to give the Carsons the space they needed to settle.

They still viewed her as a foe, as someone who would never be in their corner again; it broke her heart to know that Carson – who she had loved so desperately, _with the heart of a lovesick child_ – might hate her now, might look at her with the eyes of a man who had been betrayed by his favorite. But the royal decree that she carried in her reticule would hopefully go a long way toward restoring his trust, at least. She had petitioned His Majesty on behalf of Lady Dunne to have Charles Carson given the title Marquess of Dunne; it had taken strenuous negotiation and an impassioned speech on her part, but it was granted. He would have no control over the estate, and it would always remain Lady Elisabeth's money and power, but he would be her equal in society now. He could hold his head high again.

She could do that much. Had done that much.

It was not enough, _would never __**be**__ enough_, to redeem her in their eyes, and she knew that just as she knew that the sun would rise in the east and set in the west. But she knew that according Carson the respect that he deserved as the husband of the Marchioness of Dunne would go far in bridging the gaping chasm that she had ripped open with her careless words and attitude. Though the words had not been careless; they had been chosen to inflict the most inappropriate pains imaginable and she had done that and more. Now she must live with the anguish she had caused them.

She still loved Carson, was still jealous of the all-consuming love he had for the woman who had run the house like clockwork, but she could not begrudge either of them happiness. Not now. Especially not now that she had forged a quiet alliance with Tom Branson. They were what was left of Sybil's legacy, and they had quietly fallen back into an uneasy juggling act with the children and the house…

The first time, she had kissed him.

The second time, he had kissed her.

The third time, they had fallen into bed together and she was afraid now that they had maybe gone too far, taking such liberties and comforts from each other…

But she had already seen too far into the heart of the man her baby sister had loved, and had seen her reflection staring back at her. He had already shaped her into a woman whose haughtiness and dark desires didn't reach the surface anymore. She was the reason he had come back from America, he had whispered in the darkness of her room… and she had not felt badly for admitting how glad she was that he had returned.

The world was changing, and with the world whirling, so too were they altered.

Sybil would not begrudge them finding happiness together; Mary was certain of it. Sybil would begrudge them nothing.

Her hand crept across the seat and folded itself around his, taking comfort where it could be found.

* * *

They'd taken a ride up the crag to the little hut with a picnic basket and blankets. It was a warm, sunny day without a trace of clouds in the sky, and Charles was very pleased with himself for having had the foresight to pack a bottle of 1843 merlot and a pillow. Elsie had cooed delightedly over the modest spread of cheese, bread and fruit, and her eyes had lit up even more when he'd brought out the wine. Despite the fine clothes and the splendor they lived in, they were both very simple creatures, and his happiness was directly harnessed to hers.

She held the power to break him in her small hands, still roughened by the callouses of decades of hard work, but she would never invoke that power. Instead, she held his heart delicately, with all the tenderness of the sweetest love they both had ever known, and he was grateful for her kindness. He could not bear the thought of harming her, even in a small way; not after learning her terrible secrets, after feeling such rage toward a man long deceased, after seeing the way she threw herself even harder into her work to assuage the fear that he might not love her anymore. He could no more do Elsie harm than he could harm himself intentionally.

She finished her glass of wine and he smiled, watching her enjoyment with a stirring in his heart – and his groin. Far be it for him to properly acknowledge it, but he had known she had been discontent since Anwen had left a few days before, but seeing her happy now was a poor substitute for the happiness she had had before. A poor substitute, but at least she was happier… and he had been the cause. Getting her out and away from the house, bringing her to their quiet place, had not been an intentional seduction on his part, but even he could see his wife's reaction to the undercurrent between them. Her eyes sparkled in a way they had not previously, her cheeks reddened with a light flush from the wine and her inner desires, her hands were not quite as steady as she made them out to be in front of others, and her breathing was entirely less than steady, hitching desperately at times.

He wanted her badly; she had kept herself from him during Anwen's visit, feeling ashamed mayhaps for the way she had treated him before, letting her darkness overtake their lovemaking. He would never admit it to anyone except his darling beloved, but the feeling of her small hands striking him with gentle slaps and blows that signaled her frustration during their passion made him harder than he'd ever been in his life. The feeling of restraints on his wrists as she took her time tasting him, disallowing him of the ability to touch her made his head buzz. He could never admit to anyone but her that he was submissive to her in every way, not just in the bedroom. He must be seen to be taking charge as the husband, but as soon as the door was closed and she had pounced upon him, he was solely at her mercy.

"Mr. Carson," Elsie said, purposefully rolling the 'r's' in the way she knew drove him straight to the edge of madness and propriety, "I do believe you brought me here to seduce me."

He paused, weighing his answer carefully. "M'lady," Charles answered, his voice low and earnest, "I have no need to practice seduction on you when you have already seduced me this day."

She tasted of merlot and sheep's milk cheese with a soft edge of blackberry; her lips were stained with the juices and the wine, her tongue dancing with the swirling flavors against his as she claimed him once again, taking his heart spinning into the heavens with desire, want, and love.

Never lust.

Only love.

* * *

Mrs. Umbridge met them outside, her black skirts swirling as she raced from the house. Elsie frowned, thinking that it was a most undignified thing for the housekeeper to have done, and then it hit her that the woman's panic might have been from a message delivered to the house. _Had something happened to Anwen or Elisabeth or – oh, god forbid, someone had died…_

"M'Lady, we have visitors," Mrs. Umbridge exhaled between panting breaths, the words clipped and succinct. "They've arrived while you and Mr. Carson were out. I've put Her Ladyship and Master George in the Harrow Suite and Mr. Branson and Miss Sybil in the Falconer's Suite."

Elsie blinked once, twice, three times. "What?" she said, trying to keep her voice even despite the bit of anger beginning to tug at her heartstrings. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Umbridge, but I don't understand –"

"Lady Mary Crawley and Mr. Thomas Branson, and their children, arrived on the five-thirty train from Glasgow," Mrs. Umbridge explained patiently, though her face clearly bespoke that she thought Elsie an idiot. "They are comfortable in their rooms and Mr. Braeburn has struck the dressing gong for dinner tonight… you will have to eat in the dining room and change your clothes, of course, m'lady, because they expect a certain propriety in place –"

"Yes, of course," Charles intoned softly, gently, taking Elsie's hand to calm her. He had inspired such a tempest of passion within her only hours ago, and now he was taking such pains to keep her steady; Elsie had thought, truly, that she could not love him any more than she already had. She knew now that she was only lying to herself when she believed that to be a truth. Her heart swelled with love, desire, need, and want for him – she was a lovesick fool, and she would love him so strongly until the moment she died, no matter if he went before her into the brightness of Heaven's pearly gates. "Mrs. Umbridge, will you please send Carole up to help Her Ladyship dress this evening? I assume you have already chosen another maid to assist Lady Mary?"

"I have, Mr. Carson," Mrs. Umbridge said. "I will have Carole meet you upstairs, m'lady."

Charles led Elsie inside. They walked through the corridors to their suite of rooms. She waited until the door was closed to say, "I wonder why they are here. Lady Mary has made her views very clear, and her apology was not truthful."

He nodded and sighed. "Yes, well… maybe she wishes to make amends; and if so, I think we should be amenable to such a thing. She is a wayward child in many ways –"

"Do not defend her," Elsie said, immediately regretting the sharpness of her tone. "But I will listen to what she has to say; I owe myself that much, if not her." She would take the words of the uppity minx and hope that they could be held at face value, but the very act of them showing up uninvited and without warning was an act that spoke of cowardice from Lady Mary. And such cowardice frightened Elsie; what words would the woman use to deceive her now?

She and Charles broke away so he could dress himself – with Braeburn's assistance – in his antechamber while she was dressed by Carole, the head housemaid. Carole deftly tugged Elsie's corset strings tighter, sharing a knowing glance with her mistress, making Elsie blush. The young woman with the easy smile and the bright hazel eyes knew when Elsie and Charles had been intimate because the corset was never pulled tight enough then. Elsie punished herself with the corset, tight as skin, and when Charles laced her up, it was always looser and the marks on her skin not nearly as pronounced. The feel of silk and beading against her skin made Elsie feel like a fraud, but she must dress for dinner tonight as a woman of station, because it was expected of her. The jewels at her throat strangled her, the diamonds in her ears made her feel like she had accepted this life of extravagance and was now flaunting it for all and sundry to see… which was so far removed from the truth that she felt ill in the pit of her stomach.

"You look lovely," Charles tried to assure her, his lips caressing her neck, the curve of her shoulder, his breath tickling her ear, making her shiver and heat pool between her thighs, wetness beginning to distract her. God, she wanted him to take her, to make these feelings of inadequacy go away – even just for a moment – but he could not. There was not time before dinner even for a rough coupling; so she made do with a punishingly passionate kiss that left her lips swollen and her heart bruised. Tonight, she would let him tie her to the bed, take what he wanted, make her feel as though she were nothing and no one… she would let him do anything, if only she could feel oblivion.

She wanted so much to feel less than she did, and he was the only one who seemed to understand.

He led her downstairs on his arm, to the drawing room, where their guests were waiting. Sybbie shrieked with glee and hurtled herself across the room. "Miss Elsie, Miss Elsie!" she cried. "I missed you so much!" The little girl's arms were tight and warm around Elsie's legs, and she again wished she did not feel nearly as much; her heart broke for the child, clearly who loved so deeply.

"Oh, I missed you, too, poppet," Elsie said softly. "Look at how you've grown –"

Sybbie grinned up at her. "Daddy said if George and I are really, really good, you and Mr. Carson might come see us again," she said excitedly. "Will you? Will you come for Christmas?"

"Sybbie, let Lady Elisabeth breathe," Mary scolded in a gentle tone. "I'm sorry – she's been so excited…"

George walked straight up to Elsie and bowed from the waist, then greeted, "It's a pleasure to see you again, Lady Elisabeth." When he was done, he looked over at his mother. "Was that right, Mama?"

"You've both done very well," Tom said, speaking up for the first time. "Thank you for letting us stay. I didn't know until we arrived that you didn't know we were coming."

"It is a nice surprise," Charles said. "We don't have many visitors."

"It's a grand estate," Mary threw in with a smile. "I should think you would have wonderful parties –"

"Maybe when Anwen takes over," Elsie said, her tone deceptively calm, though her insides were in turmoil. She smoothed Sybbie's hair and smiled down at the little girl. "Would you and George like to have dinner with us tonight?"

"You don't mind?" Tom asked.

"Of course not!" Charles exclaimed. "Besides, we have no one to care for them – of course they must dine with us at the table." He reached for Elsie's hand, squeezing it in a gesture that was meant to calm her, keep her comforted. He didn't realize that he was only agitating her.

"Of course," Elsie echoed him, a weak smile on her lips. In truth, if there was to be a confrontation with Lady Mary, she did not want the children to be present. If there were to be bad blood, it was not fair in any way, shape, or form to the children to subject them to it. By the same token, if Mary was there to offer an apology or supplication of some kind, Elsie knew that she would not want to be observed by the children, either, showing them just how incorrectly she could behave and the need for atonement. Seeing your parents and betters as people who made mistakes could wait until truly the children were old enough to understand why the mistakes were made in the first place. But –

She did not like the uncertainty, but she could not force the issue – nor could she turn them out. It was unseemly, it wasn't done, she must play nicely. This was not a little cottage on the side of the road for her retirement, this was a grand estate and if word got out that the Marchioness was turning people of good standing out into the street… it would be disastrous.

She hated this new life, the new responsibilities. Elsie hated all of it. She just wanted a quiet little house, her husband's attentions, and her daughter and grandchildren. That was all she needed to be content, not jewels and finery and frippery and 200 rooms to take care of, full of antiques and dust and heritage she was bound to protect though she knew not much about it. She felt like a sham, a fake, and she hated herself and her father for subjecting her to it at all.

Maybe hate was too strong of a word.

"Shall we go through?" Charles said, gesturing for the others to go into the dining room first. He hung back, gently rubbing circles on the back of Elsie's hand and she found herself both grateful and annoyed by it. "Are you all right, my love?" he murmured.

All she could do was nod; it was a lie of omission. Her life itself was a lie of omission. She did not feel guilty for pretending, for his sake. Her very proper, sweet butler deserved everything she could give him and more. It was why she did not cut her losses and run screaming into the night: she loved him and she would fight to the death to prove to him that she was worthy of his love in return. She would sacrifice bits of her soul on any altar she could just to ensure that his love would not die out like a flickering flame.

Elsie only wished that they had had the courage to act on their love sooner.

"I am fine," she tried to assure him, a tiny smile, hesitant and weary, gracing her lips. "Let's find out what your Lady Mary wants of me now."

"She is not my lady anymore," Charles said, his voice suddenly hard. "There is no lady in my life but you, Elsie."

"You shameless old flatterer," Elsie scolded gently, squeezing his hand, a real smile – genuine, heartfelt, delicious – split her lips and made her eyes crinkle. "I do love you, you know. Very much. And it costs me nothing to say so."

"It has cost you much," he said with a small sigh; of course, that was true, and she felt suddenly much smaller for it. "But I will not hold your fib against you." He led her into the dining room, and they settled in to eat.

As the last course was taken away, Elsie said, "Why don't Sybbie and George go down to the kitchens with Mr. Braeburn and Mrs. Duncan can give them special pudding?"

"But I don't want to," Sybbie said.

"Sybbie, darling," Tom said gently, "the adults need to talk for a bit, all right? Mrs. Carson is being very kind to let you and George go downstairs for pudding while we talk."

Sybbie sighed and pouted. "It's not fair –"

"I'd like pudding," George said. "Stop it, Sybbie, or we won't get any."

Charles was trying – and almost failing – to keep his mirth at bay. "Mrs. Duncan has six grandchildren," he said. "She's very good at spoiling young lads and lasses who behave themselves."

Sybbie paused, then nodded, her dark hair falling into her eyes. "All right, Mr. Carson," she said very quietly. "Come on, George," she mumbled, taking her cousin's hand. The children were ushered out of the room by the butler, leaving the others alone but for the other servants.

The room was quiet, too quiet, as the four regarded one another cautiously. Finally, Mary spoke up, her voice low and fraught. "I know," she began, "that the way I behaved toward you both was inexcusable. And I cannot hardly begin to correct the damage I have done without thought. I could apologize, but it would just be words, and no one would begin to believe me." She took a deep breath, then exhaled just as deeply. "I wish I could say that I came to these conclusions on my own, but it took Tom showing me that I am a nightmare of a child still… even now…" Her voice broke entirely then, shaking with a tremble of anguished emotion.

Tom's hand shot across the table to take Mary's and Charles let out an undignified gasp. Elsie blinked; it was unmistakable, the way they were looking at one another, the way they instinctively protected one another… Dear god, what would Sybil say? Surely not! Surely Mary wouldn't be so callous as to –

Elsie stood up, her voice in her throat as she choked out, "No. No – you will not disrespect Sybil in my house –"

"I would never disrespect Sybil or her memory," Mary exhaled, "not ever."

"Then what do you call this?" Charles rumbled, gesturing at Mary and Tom.

"We've not acted improperly, if that's what you think," Tom said warningly. "I have asked Mary to marry me and she has accepted. Lord Grantham knows. The banns are being read."

Mary held up her hand for silence before Charles ripped Tom limb from limb. "I know, Lady Elisabeth, that we have not often seen eye to eye, and I know you've had many names for me in the past – uppity minx being your favorite." She stared right at Elsie, then continued, "And I know that Sybil was your favorite. I did not mean to fall in love with Tom. Nor did he intend to fall in love with me. But he has shown me so much – including how wrong I was in my behavior toward you." She took another deep breath and let it out in an unladylike huff. "And to that end, I knew I needed to find a way to begin regaining your trust."

"Mary," Elsie said, "there is nothing in the world you could do –"

"There is," Mary said, reaching into her purse. She pulled out a piece of paper and passed it over to Elsie. "And I am so very, very sorry that I tried to punish you and Carson. I was a fool and I was wrong."

Elsie took the paper, thick parchment, and read the words silently. 'By Royal Decree…."

By the time she reached the signature and the royal seal at the end of the paper, Elsie found herself silent, robbed of her words entirely. She handed it to Charles, and watched his eyes widen, his jaw drop slightly with the shock.

Elsie looked over at Mary. "You will treat Sybbie as your own daughter?" she asked very quietly.

Mary nodded. "I already loved her that way," she said. "Nothing will change but my name and my station. And for that, I do not care anymore. George will inherit and I will be happy with Tom. Papa has already arranged for us to move into the Lodge and we will be in charge of running the estate. It is how it has always been, but for us being in love and – and that was so sudden and –"

Elsie watched the woman for a moment, wanting to believe her words and actions were those of a woman changed, who had altered herself because of so many reasons… but she still felt a sting of slight. She knew that Mary had poked and prodded her too many times in the past for her to just give in. But…

"Lady Mary," Elsie began, "I cannot forgive and forget what has gone between us just yet. But, for Miss Sybbie's sake, I will learn in time to accept your apology."

END PART TWENTY-TWO


	23. Chapter 23

Twenty-three:  
Interlude

She could see Charles hovering, watching her, as she finished her nightly routine. Her lily scented hand cream melted into her skin as she rubbed her hands together, and what excess there was, Elsie rubbed into her neck and the underside of her jaw. The entire time she'd been getting changed, he'd paced, grumbling about not being able to talk to her properly while Carole was in the room.

Thankfully, the maid understood that it was nothing personal and merely that Mr. Carson wanted his wife's undivided attention. If it were anything but that, Elsie would have been more than a little put out, and she would have scolded him in front of the maid who was barely more than a slip of a girl. Twenty and two she was, bright-eyed and a daydreamer, but Elsie could not begrudge her a few daydreams and a hope to find love and escape a life of service.

She put the lid back on the jar of hand cream and glanced up at her husband, who was still pacing like a caged bear – only now he was in his pajamas and dressing gown, looking quite put out. "My love," Elsie said softly, "whatever is the matter?"

"I cannot fathom what she would get from doing this," Charles muttered. He gestured wildly between them. "I cannot –"

"She has always cared for you," Elsie said, feeling a small shard of jealousy take root in her heart, same as always. "She knows that things were left on bad terms between all of us; she is making amends the only way she thinks matters. She has made us equal again –"

"But it isn't right," he protested sharply. "You were born to it, Elsie. I was not. I am the son of a housekeeper and a groomsman –"

"And I am the daughter of a farmer and a disgraced housemaid," she replied softly. "It doesn't matter now. It doesn't. Do you know why I've refused so many invitations?"

"Because you are afraid of scandal?"

"No," she murmured, holding out her hand to him; her palm was in the air, her fingers lightly curled. "Because you and I were no longer equal. For so much of our lives, we have been equally important to the household and to one another and… and I cannot abide the idea of not being able to claim your arm in public. So maybe Mary has done us a favor, in truth, and that might be the greatest gift she could give – not an apology made of words with no feeling."

"Now you are defending her actions?"

"No," Elsie murmured. "I am trying to understand, same as you are. She has never been – to me – the type of woman who would put herself out for anyone. This has shaken all of us to the core, love; I think, for now, we might best be well off if we take her offering at its face value."

"After the way she treated you –"

"Charles, tonight, she treated me with kindness and even humility. I don't pretend to understand the relationship between Lady Mary and Tom Branson, but clearly, it has softened her and made her think. I cannot possibly imagine this to be a bad thing." Elsie was conflicted inside, not sure if she reached out her hand, would Mary bite her or claw her instead? So she hesitated, even though she was taking a tentative step toward the light of dawn.

"Except for him, when he discovers her contrary nature –"

"I daresay if he's asked her to marry him, he's already encountered her nature more than once," Elsie commented in a dry tone. "Up here, we'd call her a bit of a nippy sweetie, you know."

"Only a bit of one?" he challenged.

She cupped his face in her hands and brought him down for a kiss. "You are very naughty when you want to be, my lord," she whispered.

"Don't call me that – it doesn't seem real –"

"It will never seem real if you don't allow yourself to get used to it, you silly man," she scoffed gently. "You are the lord of my heart, Charles Carson, and never forget it. You hear?"

"Yes, but you are the lady and I am just –"

"You daft beggar," she snapped. "You are the love of my life and you are my husband. You are the Marquess just as I am the Marchioness. It doesn't matter except when we're with others; in private, we are still the same Charlie and Elsie we've always been. You ken?"

"Aye, I ken," he replied in a terrible approximation of what might have been a Scottish brogue if it had gotten tangled up in the new electric washing machine she had purchased for the downstairs last week.

She scowled at him. "Never do that again," Elsie warned. "You are a guest in Scotland, remember? It won't do for people to think that you're mocking them. They're already mocking _me_ for marrying you in the first place – we don't need to give them any fodder."

"Have they really?" he asked, his brow furrowing. "Been mocking you, I mean –"

"Only the true clansmen," Elsie said, rolling her eyes. "Once you get the English blood in, then they don't even bat an eye. Dunne is an old line, an old family… we held out against the Norman invaders, m'love."

"So you can outstubborn a few old goats, then?" he countered.

"Aye, that I can," Elsie agreed. "Now, I'm quite ready for bed."

"How can you think of sleeping when –"

She sighed and rolled her eyes. "You're so melodramatic, Charles. If I worried all the time like you do about inconsequential things like Lady Mary Crawley's motivations, I might probably go mad as Becky. I'd like to get some rest before dawn comes and I'm meant to take George and Sybbie to the Stables to see the ponies."

A sudden, fleeting look of disappointment crossed his features. "Oh," Charles mumbled. "Well, I thought –"

"Hmm? You thought what, love?"

He looked down at his feet for a moment, then back up at her with no small amount of hesitant shyness in his eyes. "I thought you might want to… eh, er, well…"

"You thought I would want to tear your clothes off and make love to you like a wildwoman because I'm frustrated with things?" she countered, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, you do have to admit that it has been a likely occurrence as of late," he hedged.

"Oh, Charlie," she sighed softly. "I'm sorry – I didn't mean to upset you…"

"You've not," he said quickly. "Upset me, I mean."

"It's just… I've gotten used to, well, being with you," she murmured. "I never thought it might upset you to –"

"Elsie," he said, his tone sharpening slightly, "you've misunderstood me entirely. I _want_ to be with you, to be together, to… to make love as we have been."

"You _want_ me to tie you to the bed and scratch you and slap you?" she scoffed, her confidence deflating abruptly. Surely he knew that those things they had done together were _not right_… lovemaking wasn't meant to be that way – it was meant to be about the _pleasure_, not the borderline pain of _**utter abandonment **_of the soul.

"I _want_ for you to be happy," he said, his voice lowering in timbre and pitch till they vibrated through her soul with all the resonance of her heart's desperate beating. "And if it makes you happy, if it gives you pleasure, my love, then I will do as you wish. You had noticed, hadn't you, that I'd not quite fought you too much?"

"Charles, it's not right," she protested quietly. "Finding pleasure in pain – it's a sin. It's a sin and I am a sinner, and you don't know what you're asking…"

"I am asking to make love to my beautiful wife," Charles said, taking a step closer. She didn't move away, but she held her breath, desperate to see if he would continue or if his better angels would catch up with him. _Would he berate her for the sins of the flesh that they so willingly committed upon one another in the name of ecstasy? Would he condemn her for her nails digging into his back, tearing his skin to flawed, bloody ribbons in her eagerness to chase her oblivion?_ "I am asking you to love me, Elisabeth Hughes, however you _might_, however _you_ will, however _**we**_ will."

She was very quiet, hardly daring to breathe, to allow herself to feel anything but the warmth of his skin as he reached for her hand, took hold of it without her consent – and then she imagined a world where he had not taken her hand at Brighton, at the beach. A world where she had not consented to marry him, he had not consented to love her…

And she felt an overwhelming urge fire up in the pit of her belly, urging her on to love as she would – and love him, she did. She twined her fingers with his, feeling the roughness of his fingers from carrying the wine cases, feeling the warmth of his love suffusing her with a raging desire that she could not quell. Nor did she think she should attempt to try – not now, not when he had asked such wonders of her.

He smelled of pomade – a creamy, musky scent with green tones – and a crisp lavender fougere, a scent that was so very him that she could not fight it any more than she could fight herself and her inner demons. He tasted of the last of the rhubarb crumble and custard from dinner, the post-dinner coffee and sherry, and something so very him that it sent her knees trembling as he kissed her. The combination was heady, overwhelming, and her heart pounded in her ears, a deep flush creeping up her chest until it reached her cheeks. And still he kissed her as though he wanted to devour her alive; their tongues tangled, fighting for dominance in the war that raged between them, the heat so high as to be scorching.

She pulled back, breaking the intimate – _too intimate, god, how could he be so intensely a part of her even in separate bodies?_ – contact and just stared at him, trying to catch her breath. He reached for her, and she took a step back, unwilling – unable – to tell him that she felt like a cornered animal. What he wanted – _what she wanted, dear god, she wanted to hear him cry out in pleasure mixed with pain, wanted to feel him so deep within her that she came apart in his hands_ – was so wrong… so, so very wrong. "Charles," she exhaled; his name was a curse and a benediction in one scared breath.

She could live with anything but his condemnation, and he _would_ condemn her –

"_Charlie_…" The word was soft, aching with import, so soft as to be feather-light. It was full of trepidation, of longing, of _yearning_… and yearning for what?

"Elsie," came the equally quiet reply. It was followed by a breathlessly earnest, "I love you. _Please_."

It was his tone and the tired, scared need in his eyes that did her in. He needed reassuring as much as she did, as much as she always had – god knew he had been her only lifeline for a span of years, and now she was so very dependent upon his good graces. Her Charlie, her butler – _**her love**_.

She stepped back into his embrace, lingered there, her cheek pressed tightly against the fabric of his pajamas, her ear catching the distant – but so close – thudding of his heartbeat. Her arms wrapped around him, holding him tight as she could manage, tears welling up in her eyes. "I love you," Elsie whispered. "I love you, I love you, I love you, Mr. Carson."

And she did; he had shown her a life full of love and lust and all the spectrum in between the two. He had gently held her broken bits together as she healed herself; he had been a shoulder to cry on, a love worth defying for. He was her everything, and the thought of denying him now…

It was unthinkable.

She could no more deny him than she could deny herself.

They existed on some parallel level of reality as they undressed one another, lips and hands wanting for nothing but the touch of the other. Elsie melted into his skillful hands, finding his need just as deep and welcoming as her own – a carefully crafted ocean of desire that was meant just for them to traverse. She didn't need to encourage him, nor to do anything but give in to the pleasure that was wrought between them.

She couldn't find it in her heart to be cross with him for digging his fingers into her hair, sending pins flying everywhere as he kissed her and loosened her chignon. The maids would talk; she would blush, remembering the passion in his eyes and the punishing, bruising kiss that made her lips swell and her body tingle with anticipation. It would be both a pleasure and an agony, knowing that she was every bit as wanton and full of intensity as her mother had been with Lord Dunne – but they were at least married, wedded and bedded and…

Bedded, indeed. The mattress was soft, luxurious, and he was heavy between her thighs, pressing her down into the feather-stuffed bed that was theirs and theirs alone. She whimpered and bit back a gasp, then a moan, of pleasure as he stretched her.

This was simple, beautiful, clearly not wrong – this was love in its simplest, purest form. He was unsteady; she was unsteady. Together, they were steady in a sea of tumult.

His hips rocked; she took him deeper, eyes rolling back in her head, Gaelic expletives tripping from her lips like god's own song as she lost control, driving them both over the edge.

He hadn't made it entirely out of his pajamas; her nightdress was balled up around her hips ungracefully. It didn't matter: they were both satisfied, blissfully, delightfully satiated.

His lips lingered in her hair, and then she heard his whisper. "I will never hurt you, Elsie."

And her heart soared on the wind like the wings of a dove, seeking peace in the skies.

END PART TWENTY-THREE


	24. Chapter 24

Twenty-four:  
Crumbling

Elsie was out in the Stables with the children. Charles was entertaining Mary and Tom (and wondering how he could ever train himself to attend to being so familiar with them – in any capacity) with a tour of the great house and the rather expansive garden. The blossoms of spring were a beautiful riot around them as they walked, talking of small, inconsequential things.

"Mr. Carson," Mary said as they walked through the cherry tree grove, "Tom and I would like it very much if you and Mrs. Carson would come to our wedding in a month's time."

"You've been planning this a while, then?" Charles asked, a bit surprised.

"Not as such, no, but… we would like you to be there nonetheless," Tom spoke up. "You and Mrs. Carson have been our friends over the years, even when you didn't have to be. Even when, maybe, it would have been better for you not to have been."

"I will discuss it with Elsie," he replied. "But I believe I can tentatively say we will be there." He couldn't hold back a tiny jab of, "We might lend your marriage an air of respectability."

Mary stifled a laugh, then looked over at Tom with no small amount of adoration and amusement. Charles wondered briefly if that was how he looked at his Elsie; if that was why no one at all was surprised by their marriage or their intent to marry in the first place. God knew, her expression was rather unvarying, even when she was pleased or smug with herself.

It made him love her all the more, knowing that she was the steady one. Steady, dependable, reliable. Even through all of her trials, she had been such. The entire time he had known Elisabeth Hughes, he had known her to be beautiful, talented, and steady. Always steady. Even when she was near the breaking point. Even when she sank her nails into his back and spurred him on, even desperately lost in search of release, she was steady.

He, however, was always lost in idleness, observing her – and the other things around him.

Unsteady, unbalanced; Cheerful Charlie, dropping all the balls he was juggling.

He frowned, blinking, when he realized that Mary was staring at him expectantly. He had no idea what she'd asked. "I'm sorry, I was away with the fairies," Charles apologized.

"Yes, I could tell," Mary replied dryly. "I was merely inquiring as to whether or not Scotland suits you. I never much saw you as a man of the wilds."

He snorted. "Dunne is hardly the wildlands," Charles said. "Besides, we're only an hour to Glasgow by train. It is hardly as though we are in the middle of nowhere."

"I rather like it here," Tom spoke up. "It reminds me of home a bit."

Both Mary and Charles stared at him for a moment, then recovered. "So you are doing well here?" Mary asked, sounding concerned.

"We are."

"Carson," Mary began hesitantly, "I've been worried, since your wedding and departure were all so abrupt, if you might not have been entirely happy –"

"Mary, you're a blinking idiot," Tom hissed, grabbing her firmly by the arm.

"I am very happy," Charles said, his voice stiff as he finally realized that Mary had thought, still, that she could come between him and Elsie if only she stuck her foot in it. "We are very happy. I am a grandfather and a great-grandfather – we love and are loved in return. The estate is prospering under our watch and the staff respects us as well as they care for us. So, yes… I am quite happy to remain here with my wife, Lady Mary."

Mary's lips pursed together into a thin line. Charles felt the quiet, reserved anger radiating off of her, and he ignored it. It was the only thing he could do: ignore her bad behavior.

"And speaking of my wife, I'm afraid I must go to the Stables," he added, "and see to it that she's not overwhelmed. You may continue in the gardens or you may inquire of the staff about the trails if you care for a secluded change of pace." He could not keep the crisp iciness from his tone, nor did he wish to. The cheek of Mary Crawley, thinking that she could manipulate him even now –

He gathered himself and strode back toward the house, hoping for a small drink to steady his nerves before he went to the Stables. If he was calm, Elsie would remain so; if he was not, she would go mad trying to figure out why he was upset – and that would never do.

He stepped into the Drawing Room and Braeburn met him with the post. "Mr. Carson, invitations from Glasgow for Lady Dunne and a letter for you from Lytham-St.-Anne's," the butler said gravely. "Shall I fetch a pot of tea?"

"No, but I will fetch myself a dram of whiskey," Charles muttered. "Lady Mary and Mr. Branson might be inside in a few minutes. Please see that they receive all of the utmost courtesy that Dunnesmore has to offer, but do not plan for them to stay longer than tomorrow. I am afraid that Lady Mary and I have not seen eye to eye and she will likely wish to leave as soon as possible."

A hint of surprise, almost masked, crossed the butler's face. "Yes, sir –"

"I suppose I should be grateful to her," Charles grunted irritably, "but after the stunt she just pulled… I believe her to be a master manipulator." He poured himself a measure of whiskey and stared at the amber liquid in the glass, wondering briefly why Mary Crawley had ever thought that he could reciprocate her childlike feelings of attachment when he was so very clearly tied to Elsie in ways that could never be undone. Their bond had nothing to do with the rings on their fingers; it had everything to do with the giving and receiving of one another whilst in the most vulnerable moments of their lives. They had forged a bond stronger than any man – or woman – could imagine that the effort to tear it asunder would be immense… and Mary would not be what made it come undone.

He took a quick sip, feeling the burn as the liquor passed his lips, and studied the envelope from Lytham-St.-Anne's. His name was on the envelope as addressed, which he found odd – all of her letters came to Elsie, and then Elsie would share them with him later. Why on earth would she be writing to him?

Another sip of his drink found him opening the envelope carefully and reading…

He poured himself another drink.

He made a phone call, arranging for train tickets for that evening, hang the expense.

Charles was about to leave for the Stables, slightly unsteady from the whiskey going to his head, when the telephone rang and everything changed.

He had a third drink, then a fourth, not knowing how he would be able to face her now.

* * *

"Charles?" He was sitting in one of the large, oversized armchairs that dwarfed her _\- but he always looked comfortably at home in them –_ facing out the French doors into the garden entrance. He shifted uncomfortably, and did not turn her direction. "Love, what is it? Braeburn just said you needed to see me –"

"I've booked us on the evening train to Glasgow," he said in a voice oddly thick and slurred. She glanced at the whiskey decanter and saw that it was nearly half-empty. "And from there, York, and then onward to Lytham-St.-Anne's."

It took her a moment to process that. "Oh," she said quietly. "Becky is sick, then?"

He was silent. That did nothing for her frame of mind, suddenly gone over to the darkness.

"Charles? Has my sister taken ill?" she tried again.

That spurred him into movement; he rose from the chair and turned to her, his face painted with emotion she knew he would rather not be feeling if he didn't have to. He held out several sheets of paper which she could see even from a distance to be covered with Becky's uneven scrawls. She had had the most beautiful handwriting once; delicate and graceful, each letter a delight woven together… but her madness had turned writing into a chore, and not one worth doing well anymore, apparently. "It was cancer," Charles said, making Elsie's eyes jerk to his abruptly, remembering vividly the pain of her scare years before. "She was only diagnosed a few days ago – she wrote me to tell me… so I could break it to you gently. But she did not last long, Elsie, love… she hadn't much fight left in her after all this time."

"She is – my Becky is – she's gone, then?" Elsie asked, her voice cracking, breaking, shattering as the tears welled up in her eyes and her heart clenched painfully in her chest. "My sister is dead?" The words left her cold, achingly sad, her soul reacting with a similar chill as her body shivered.

The paper rustled as his arms came around her, just holding her close and letting her weep. It was all too much, all too difficult to bear; she had only proposed to Charles a few days ago that they make a week of it and go to the seaside and see their Becky… and now this? Now _this_.

She was ever so grateful for him; he held her steady as they stumbled through the rest of the day. He was her rock, and she was faltering like a boulder on the edge of the abyss. He was the only thing left to hold her up now. He had the presence of mind, despite being borderline tipsy, to have Mrs. Umbridge pack Elsie's bags rather than one of the maids – who would not have understood, not truly, the need for the deepest blacks of mourning. For Elsie was still first and foremost a good Victorian girl of standing, and the rules of mourning were rigid and inflexible as the laws of the universe. Elsie felt like she was sleepwalking through the day; nothing made sense anymore, it was all incomprehensible nonsense.

But Charles was there.

And she held his hand when she needed to feel steady again.

END PART TWENTY-FOUR


	25. Chapter 25

Twenty-five:  
Moving Forward

She stood on the edge of the small lake on the Downton property and stared down into its murky depths. This was the first time since she had come here that she felt no shame, no urge to fill her pockets with rocks and rubble and clods of dirt, no urge to throw herself into the water and let it take her away from the world.

So much could happen in a year, in two years…

So much could happen in a lifetime.

Elsie still wore the black of mourning for her sister; only a scant few weeks had passed since then. It had been blissfully quick, and Becky had been spared the worst of the pain that cancer could inflict – thank god. She could not bear the thought of her sister alone, frightened, and in pain. Instead, she had died peacefully in her sleep, leaving behind a diary full of scattered thoughts and dreams that Elsie and Charles had read through when Elsie felt well enough again to do so.

She had written about them, about how happy she was to see her Elsie blissfully pleased after too many years of sorrow. And Elsie had felt her heart crack around the edges yet again. Fortunately, her Charlie was there to hold her together, to touch her, to love her, to comfort her.

Mary and Tom had postponed the wedding once, twice, thrice, but the day was finally upon them. Elsie knew she had to go back to the house and change for the wedding, but in the early dawn, she was content to stand at the lakeside and remember the day. For it was _that_ day again; the day that had both ruined her and exalted her. The day that had shaped her in so many ways, but she no longer felt herself to be a victim. No, Charles had shown her that she was a survivor – and to be a survivor, a fighter, one must have something to survive, to rail against.

And what did she have to show for all of the suffering and sorrow?

She had a family.

She had Charles.

She had love deeper than she could explain.

She didn't notice his approach, so Elsie startled when she felt Charles take her hand in his. "I love you," he said simply, "no matter what."

Elsie was silent for a long moment, then she breathed, "I love you, Charlie Carson, and don't you ever forget it."

Two figures in black stood on the edge of the lake; and neither felt the urge to jump in.

**_c'est fini_**


End file.
